


10-39, 10-85

by screamer



Series: RLBIVOB 'verse [4]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Comment Fic, Crimes & Criminals, Dysfunctional Family, Hurt Jared, Kid Fic, Labor/False Labor, M/M, Mpreg, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pregnant Sex, Prison, Public Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Road Head, Schmoop, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-02-17 12:27:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 19,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2309642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screamer/pseuds/screamer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of unrelated short fics for the 24 Hour Comment Fic over on the RLBIVOB community. For better organization, I'm adding them all here. Most of these are future timestamps, and so contain <span class="u"><b>SPOILERS</b></span>. Expect the usual questionable RLBIVOB content.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prompt - Sunday morning cartoons

Weekends aren’t really weekends for Jared and Jensen, they’re just another day of the month. Sometimes there’s free time, mostly there isn’t. Crime is a service job, and you have to keep the customer happy. It’s the rare morning Jared wakes up with Jensen still in bed beside him, still asleep. Rare enough that he probably needs it, so Jared leaves him and goes for a run.

It’s Sunday, eight o’clock, cold fall sunlight and crisp air, and Jared runs four miles with Mark half a step behind. He kicks of his shoes in the foyer, passes the kitchen - empty - heads upstairs. Ariel isn’t around today, but if Cal wakes up, the housekeeper will get him. 

Or Jensen. Jared hears the TV before he pushes the ajar door open. Jensen’s still in bed, Cal snuggled up against his chest, head tucked under his chin. 

“He’s a boy,” Cal says. 

“Pretty sure Buttercup’s girl,” Jensen says. His voice is gravelly with sleep. 

“No, he’s a boy because his eyes.”

“What about his eyes?”

Cal has a finger in his mouth, eyes intent on the TV. His hair is fuzzy curly mess, catching on Jensen’s three day beard. “Buttercup,” Cal says.

“Okay, you win," Jensen says. Then, “You gonna watch with us or just lurk like a creep?”

Jared grins, crosses the room. “Yeah, shove over.”


	2. Prompt - Secret Weakness

Since meeting Jensen - since marrying Jensen - Jared’s attended more charity functions and society event than he could have possibly imagined. It wasn’t what he saw in his future back when he was in college. Well, none of this was.

Jared’s pretty sure Jensen doesn’t give a fuck about the stuff he puts money towards, or the people is will benefit. 

“It’s an investment,” Jensen says. “People remember that kind of shit, and when you need it, that’s what counts.”

It’s work, and Jensen handles it like work. Meaning, he’s professional and so fucking charming it kind of makes Jared gag. The upside is Jensen, looking great in a suit, keeping Jared close, and when there’s a lull in the socializing, whispering, “Think we could get away with me fucking you over that bar?”

That’s the usual. Tonight isn’t usual. Twenty minutes into it, Jensen goes to get them drinks and four minutes later he’s pissed. More than pissed, he’s losing it under his tight smile. No one else would pick up on it, but Jared does. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing wrong,” Jensen says, but he’s looking back at the bar, at a couple of old guys chatting. 

“That’s bullshit. You’re shaking.” The liquid in Jensen’s glass quivers, just the tiniest bit, and that more than anything is really freaking Jared out. He’s only seen Jensen this angry a few times. 

“Not now, Jared.”

“Let’s go,” Jared says, sets his drink down, starts weaving through the crowd. He doesn’t bother to check Jensen’s following. Jensen being a dick, shutting him down, that’s mostly a thing of the past. Now Jared knows that when it happens, Jensen’s fucked in head over something. Usually Cal or Jared, sometimes work. 

In the car, Jensen’s quiet and Jared leaves him alone for a while before he says,

“Alright. What’s up with you. Who was the old guy?”

Jensen makes a face. He’s calmer now. “A motherfucking piece of shit.”

Jared waits. 

“Doctor Michael Ramsford, P fucking H D.” Jensen sighs. “He wrote a book. About me. Not about me, but I was in it.”

Jared hasn’t heard about this, at all. “Huh.”

“His study, his field of expertise,” Jared can hear the air quotes, “is sociopaths.”

“Wow. Okay.” Jared isn’t quite getting it, whatever it is that set Jensen off. When Jared is honest with himself, as he occasionally is, Jensen does have most of the qualities of a psychopath. Jared has a few himself. But it doesn’t mean anything, it’s words on a page. Jared knows Jensen, and that counts. 

“He dug into my past and shit.” Jesnen is looking out the window. He knocks his arm against the glass, cufflink clicking. “Made up a fucking ton of shit about how it shaped my psyche. It’s all bullshit.”

“Like, what? What’d he say?”

“Basically I’m white trash with an animal brain and an insatiable need for recognition.”

Jared laughs. “The fuck does that even mean. Hey,” Jared leans across the space, gets a knee on the seat. “You know how dumb that is? He’s some real smart whatever, and he’s writing about you. That tells you something, yeah? Of all the worthwhile thinks to study, he’s choosing – ”

Jensen grabs Jared’s wrist, stopping him. “Jared, I don’t need you to stroke my goddamn ego.”

Whatever. Jared can look up doctor who-the-fuck-ever later. “How about I stroke something else, then.”

“That’s third rate.”

“I don’t get enough practice.” Jared twist his wrist, breaking the hold, leans in for a kiss. Jensen watches him, doesn’t move away.


	3. Prompt - "Please don't tell Dad."

Cal’s high enough that it takes way longer than it should to figure out what’s going on. He’s still thirty seconds behind, trying to figure out who grabbed the back of his shirt, as he stumbles out the back exit, wet winter air a shock to his overheated system. 

“Hey,” he protests, moves to put his drink down so he can get rid of the hands on his arms, and finds he’s not holding it anymore. Weird. The puddles of water on the pavement look like oil spills, all shiny rainbow colors in the ripples. Cal’s foot lands in one and he almost falls, yanked back upright by the hands. 

Hands. Right. Fuck. 

“Ge’off me.” Cal tries to plant his feet, but the ground isn’t totally solid. Before he can come up with a better maneuver, the street's right there, and pulled up to the curb is one of his dad’s cars. He’s so fucked. So, so fucked. 

The back door opens from the inside, and in the interior light Cal sees Jared. He’s kind of expressionless, but that doesn’t mean he’s not pissed. 

Whoever has Cal’s arms kind of hoists him inside, sprawling because Cal’s limbs aren’t attached to his body, and Jared grabs his shoulder, steadies him. 

So, not good. Cal’s coming up with something to say, but he knows he’s high and all the shit he’s thinking right now is really dumb, even if it doesn’t sound dumb, he knows it is, if only by his future self . . . did that make sense?

Then he realizes the car is moving, and looks over at Jared. 

“You gonna say something?” Just hurry up, get it over with. 

Jared looks at him, shrugs. “No.”

Oh, shit. Shitshitshit. They’re going to talk to him together. No, no way. 

Cal’s skin feels too hot. Maybe he’s going to puke. This is like a high gone bad. “Please don’t tell Jens.”

Jared laughs, and Cal’s head throbs. “You know that isn’t going to happen, kiddo.”

“Wont do it again,” Cal tries. It sounds good. 

“I know it.”

Fuck his life.


	4. Prompt -  Fight Training

“You’re teaching Jared from now on.”

That’s two days, and done. Mark doesn’t ask why the boss isn’t instructing Jared anymore, but he can guess. 

“Useful shit, you know.”

How to kill someone and stay alive doing it. Mark can handle that. 

“I almost broke his fucking arm.” Jensen sounds disbelieving. Mark isn’t. Jensen’s not a good teacher. He’s too soft or too hard. And Jared . . . Jared isn’t a good student. Not for Jensen. 

— 

“So you’re better at this than Jensen? Army thing? Special forces?”

“I’m better at teaching it. We wont be doing any sparing till you’re ready.”

Jared raises his eyebrows. “You know the not teaching me is because we ended up fucking like five minuets in? Not because of the sparring thing.”

Jesus Christ. Mark should have known. “That wont be happening either.”

Jared grins. “Whatever you say.”


	5. Prompt - Jensen gets hurt

It’s an accident. Ironic to an extreme. Of all the ways he could get hurt, and this was the one. It’s not gang related, it doesn’t even happen in New York. He’s stepping out of his car and some motherfucker sideswipes him. For a moment everything is bright white and then O’Connell’s face is there, a blurry pink shape. 

“Who was that motherfucking cunt.” It sounds wrong, coming out. His fucking jaw isn’t working, or his mouth. He squints around, puts a hand to the warm trickle running down his cheek. O’Connell is talking about hospitals. 

“I don’t need a fucking hospital. Get me something for this.” 

O’Connell moves away. Jensen leans forward, closes is eyes. Then he’s throwing up, puking all over his own goddamn shoes. 

— 

The first clear thing he sees is Jared. The kid’s twisted up in his chair, eyes closed, hair in his face. He’s frowning, his pretty mouth pouting. Jensen reaches out, nudges Jared’s knee. 

Jared comes awake instantly, twitching upright. “Jesus,” he hisses, coughs. “You okay?”

“I’m in a hospital and my head’s fucked up.”

Jared frowns some more. His eyes are red. Jensen hopes he wasn’t crying. That shit’s over the top. He doesn’t like the idea of Jared crying. 

“Yeah, I wish I could blame you, but apparently it wasn’t even your fault.” Jared licks his lips, darker red in the cracks. He’s probably dehydrated, dumb little shit. 

“C’mere.”

Jared slide to the edge of his chair. “You’re not going to break if I touch you?”

“Shut up. C’mere.”

Jared comes.


	6. Prompt - Jensen/Cillian first time

The showers smell like mildew and something rotten that comes from the water. Cillian’s still laughing, insane fucker. It bounces off the cinder block and tile. 

“I thought you were gonna shit yourself. Did you shit yourself? Maybe a little?” Cillian laughs again.

Jensen ignores him, steps under the water. The cut inside his mouth is still bleeding salty copper taste down his throat. He’s got a darkening bruise across his left side. The skin over his first and second knuckles is split. Blew it open on some cum dump’s teeth. Jensen hopes he knocked a few loose.

“You got moxy. For a punk.”

Jensen spits a mouthful of red water, watches it cloud to pink. He hasn’t been inside long but he knows what a punk is, and knows he’s not it. “Fuck off, McNulty.”

“I might yet. Haven’t decided.” 

Out of the corner of his eye Jensen can see the blur of Cillian’s naked body, dark hair turned black with water. He’s watching Jensen.

“I’m taking a nap, I’m not gonna be around much longer. They’ll eat you alive without me to watch your pretty ass.”

Jensen spits another mouthful of water, wipes it out of his eyes. Tastes as disgusting as it smells. “I’m not gonna be your boy.”

Cillian shakes his hair back, moves into Jensen’s space. “You’re going to be somebody’s boy.”

Jensen doesn’t want to admit there’s any truth in that. But shit doesn’t work the same on the inside. It’s a whole new world, all new rules, and Jensen has no leverage. Other than McNulty. If he hadn’t stepped in, Jensen knows he’d been dead or in infirmary, ass torn open. 

Jensen tongues the cut in his cheek. Turns to Cillian. Best choice all around. Even the hacks don’t bother him. If Jensen’s good enough, McNulty might not want to give him up when he’s out. 

Jensen goes to his knees on the slimy cement. McNulty’s already half hard, legs spread, waiting. Motherfucker, Jensen thinks. He gets a grip on the base of Cillian’s dick, goes to work. 

“Yeah, fuck, yeah.” 

It’s like bad porn. The showers blow steam on drafts of cold air. Cillians thighs are tight muscle under wet skin. Jensen shuffles his knees, gets a little more comfortable, moves his hands to McNulty’s hips, takes his cock to the back of his throat. At least Cillian fucking showers, not some of the shitpots in this place. 

Cillian grabs Jensen’s hair, pulls fingers digging into his scalp. Jensen fucking hates that. Maybe later on he’ll work on it. Once he knows what gets Cillian going, knows what makes him lose his mind. You find what a guy really likes, really needs, there’s control in that. 

“Hold up,” Cillian’s pulling Jensen off just as it’s getting good. Jensen lets his cock go with a sloppy pop. Cillian’s grinning, eyes half lidded, hair dripping in his face. “That’s good for starters, but lets get to the entrée.”

Comparing sex to food, another thing Jensen fucking hates. 

He grins. “Yeah?” He walks his hands up Cillian’s body, tight stomach, lean ribs. The guy’s not bad looking, Jensen might be able to kind of get into it if the circumstances were right. 

“Not so interested in your mouth,” Cillian knocks Jensen’s hands out and away. “Let’s see how good you are with that pretty cock.”

McNulty’s a fucking bottom bitch. Yeah, Jensen can work with that. He grabs tight skin, shoving harder than he needs to, and Cillian just laughs. 

Jensen uses soap and two fingers. McNulty’s swearing and grinning like a demon, bent arms braced against the wall. “Yeah, kid. Give it to me.”

Jensen’s hard and his mouth still tastes like blood. He's ready to brutalize something and Cillian fucking wants it. He lines up and shoves in, short hard jerks of his hips. He’ll tear up this fucking bitch, make him scream for more and then hold it back when he needs it bad. 

Jensen’s getting out, and he’s going to the top.


	7. Prompt - Windows + Luscious

The glass is sticky under Jared’s sweaty palms, cold against heated skin when Jensen shoves hard enough to press Jared into it. 

“Nice view?” Jensen’s got his hands on Jared’s ass, thumbs pulling him open, exposed to cool air on wet skin. Casual conversation while he’s got someone’s tongue up his asshole is still fucking weird for Jared. He can’t see the view, he’s got his eyes closed, forehead on his crossed arms, trying to not jump out of his hot, twitchy skin.

“Shut up,” he mumbles. 

Jensen laughs, and Jared feels hot breath on the wet skin of his crack. He groans, can’t help it. It’s so fucking nasty, so fucking good. 

“I’m enjoying mine.” Jensen’s nose bumps Jared’s tail bone, tongue teasing the rim of his asshole. 

Jared whines, growls, arches his back, trying to ride Jensen’s face. Sweat’s pooling in the groove down his spine, the small of his back, and when Jensen pushes him back into the window glass, the sharp sting of cold against the head of his cock makes Jared yelp, twisting away. Makes him lift his head, open his eyes. 

The whole goddamn city’s down there. He can see central park, George Washington bridge, glowing under a slate grey sky, deepening to black. Gold and diamonds, the whole insane mess, beating like music one floor down, throbbing in Jared’s veins. Jensen’s city, his city. And Jensen’s on his knees, mouth on Jared so soft and sweet, so filthy. Nothing’s too low for them, or too high. 

Jared’s breath clouds the glass, fingers drawing wet lines through it, scrabbling for purchase when Jensen holds his hips and slides in, slow and heavy, straight to Jared’s core.


	8. Prompt - PA Worship

They fly to Denver with Jensen’s Aston Martin on board. Two days in the city on business and Jensen’s on edge. Friday evening he’s on the hotel balcony, washed in gold sunlight, smoking from a new pack of cigarettes. He looks at Jared. “C’mon, I’m taking you camping.”

They might have equipment, but if they do someone else packed it for them. Jared doesn’t care. They aren't going for the camping. They just drive. Jensen’s smoking, and he has a bottle of Irishman open in the car, but Jared’s doing most of the drinking. They hit the grasslands as the sun’s setting, turning the fields gold, the rock amber. Jared’s had his hand on Jensen’s dick for a good ten minuets, groping him through his jeans, working him up. 

The highway’s mostly empty; compared to the city, it’s deserted. Jensen’s relaxed back in his seat, lips parted. The sun blinks in and out on the horizon, lighting up his profile, the roll of his throat, sparking off the lens of his sunglasses, bleeding into the smoke blowing from his mouth and nose. Sometimes Jared forgets how goddamn beautiful his husband is. 

Jared tightens his grip, and Jensen laughs, hoarse. “You keep doing that you’re not gonna get what you want.” He puts his hand out the window, tapping ash off his cigarette. Jared watches the sunlight work over the muscle and veins of his forearm, the wedding ring on Jensen's finger catching the light. A warm ache throbs through Jared, making his dick twitch hard against his zipper. 

“Yeah, I will.” 

Jared works Jensen’s belt open, taking his time. They’ve got a lot of highway ahead of them. Jensen’s hard cock strains under the cloth of his boxers, and Jared pulls the fabric tighter, gripping the shaft, thumbing the head, watching the outline of Jensen’s Prince Albert. Jensen’s skin is so fucking hot, bleeding through the cloth. It’ll feel better as skin on skin, but Jared wants to make this last. 

Jensen’s wheel arm brushes the back of Jared's head when he leans in, ducks down to get his mouth on the black silk, feeling that heat on his lips. Jared hooks his left arm behind Jensen, and good thing Jensen doesn’t need to shift because no fucking way he can. 

Jensen inhales, ribs pressing into Jared’s shoulder, exhales. Jared wants to get his hands there, thin skin, tight, close muscle; he can’t, and the limitations almost make it better. The speedometer is hovering at 76 mph when Jared finally drags the waistband of Jensen’s boxers down. He slides one hand between Jesnen’s spread legs, cradling his balls, and that makes Jensen grunt and shift. There’s nowhere to go, and his thighs and elbow just shove Jared, rocking him into the steering wheel.

Jared stays like that for a moment, thumb pressed against the root of Jensen’s cock, rolling the soft weight of Jensen's sack in the palm of his hand. He watches the slow pulse of milky pre-come leaking around the gold barbell. It’s so fucking good, the vibrations of the car the only attention Jared’s dick is getting. God, he could go like this forever. 

Jared works his hand up, grips Jensen, sliding down the foreskin till the glans pops free, pink and shiny-wet. Jared doesn’t touch it, uses his tongue to tease the ball of Jensen’s jewelry, wiggling the bar back and forth. The taste of come and metal, warm with body heat. 

Jensen gives a breathy moan, his fingers raking through Jared’s hair, gripping and pulling stands too tight. The whiskey is still in the back of Jared’s throat, smoke on his skin. The cool evening air blowing through the window smells like dust and grass and sunlight. Under Jared's tongue Jensen is fresh sweat over clean skin, silky wet and salty. Jared takes the head in his mouth, laving his tongue over metal, skin, metal skin. He jacks Jensen slow, grip tight, sucks hard, then pulls off, licking up his own spit, more come. He adjusts his grip, slides Jensen’s foreskin up over the head, watches the gold and green hide away. 

Jensen’s hand skims over Jared’s back, settles on the waistband of his jeans, rucking up his shirt. His thumb strokes into the dip of Jared’s spine. “Fuck, you’re really playing tonight.”

Jared makes a vague sound, kisses the sloppy wet head of Jensen’s dick, soft, pink skin sheathing darker flesh. He leaves his mouth there, working at the slit with his tongue, pushing around smooth metal stretching it open.

Jensen’s fingers spasm on Jared’s back, dig into his skin. “Jesus motherfucking . . . ghuuhh Jare . . .” 

Jared can feel Jensen's breaths pushing into his shoulder. The car engine is pitched high, tearing up highway in a way that’s going to burn the tank too soon. Jensen’s saying something, maybe it's Gaelic. the muscles in his thigh are rock hard under Jared’s arm. The wind stirs Jared’s hair, moving it over his sweaty skin, brushing against Jensen’s groin. Jared can’t see the sun, but the light is grey now, no warmth on his skin outside of Jensen’s fingers. Jared holds the hot weight of Jensen in his mouth, works him slow, deep and slow, and maybe it will never end. 

Of course it does. The short burst of a police siren is what pulls Jared back to the present. The rolling lights throw red and blue inside the car, and Jensen’s already slowing, dropping past eighty before the cop could even touch them. Jensen’s laughing, a crazy high kind of laughter, strung out and worked up. He’s churning his hips, pushing his cock up into Jared’s mouth even as he’s gripping Jared’s hair to pull him off. Jared lets him, mouth stringing strands of come and saliva as he lets go. 

Jared wipes at his mouth breathing hard, feeling a little dizzy and disconnected. The car is stopped on the shoulder of the highway, headlights brighter than the pale blue strip of horizon under a dark sky. 

“Fucking cops,” Jensen laughs. “Fucking goddamn cops.” He reaches for Jared's face, wipes a thumb over Jared’s bottom lip, the corner of his mouth. “You’re a mess.” He pulls his hand back, sticks his thumb in his own mouth to clean it off. 

The police light are glaring in the interior of the car and Jared’s sluggish brain finally catches on that they have an open bottle of alcohol in the footwell, and Jensen’s got everything hanging out, still hard and wet. Jared’s rock hard in his jeans, so tight it hurts. 

“Fuck.” Jared grabs the bottle, shoves it under the seat. Jensen makes a groaning growl when Jared starts tucking him away. He grabs Jared’s wrist, keeping Jared’s hand on his dick. The beam of a flashlight runs through the car, approaching the driver’s window and Jensen shuts of the car engine, the silence heavy. Jared pulls his hand away to adjust himself in his pants - it fucking hurts.

“Evening,” the cop says. Jared can’t see his face, just his belt, loaded down with all kinds of shit, his button shirt pulled tight over his torso. “You gentlemen know why I stopped you tonight?”

There’s movement on Jared’s side of the car, another cop just standing there.

Jensen grins. He’s still got his belt undone, fly open, and no way the cop misses that. “Pretty sure I was pushing one twenty.”

“One thirty,” the cop says, and Jensen makes a surprised, pleased sound. The flashlight beam pans over Jensen, moving towards Jared. “Got any reason you were going that fast?”

Jensen tilts his head toward Jared. “He had my dick halfway down his throat.”

The cops boots crunch on gravel and he makes a noise that sounds like a word. Jensen’s still grinning, lazy and easy, but Jared knows underneath it he’s strung tight. 

“Alright. I’m gonna need your license and registration.”

Jensen hands it over and the flashlight retreats back to the patrol vehicle. The cop on Jared’s side lurks. 

Jensen glances at Jared, the police lights painting one side of his face red and blue. “Think you can finish me off before he gets back?”


	9. Prompt - Gingerbread cookies

For Cal's second Christmas Tracy bakes tiny, perfect gingerbread men. She frosts them with smiles and bow ties and buttons, and Cal can't take his eyes off them. Jared has his camera out when he sits Cal down and puts a plate of cookies in front of him. Everything seems picture worthy these days, because Jared doesn't want to decide what isn't. 

Cal's almost reverent as he picks up the first cookie. He looks at Jared, question in his eyes. 

"Yeah, you can eat it. Go ahead."

Cal studies the cookie in hand, lifts it to his mouth and bites the head off. 

Jared snaps a dozen pictures, trying to catch every millisecond - Cal's soft, flyaway hair, the frosting on his mouth, his adorable Cal-face. "How is that buddy, you like it?"

Cal sets aside the decapitated gingerbread man and reaches for the next one on the plate. He bites that one's head off, too. He looks up at Jared, chubby cheeks full, crumbs on his chin. Without breaking eye contact, Cal drops the second cookie and reaches for a third. 

When he bites the head off, again, Jensen starts laughing, and Jared gives up and joins in.


	10. Prompt - "So what do your Dads do for a living?"

The first time another kid asked Cal what his dads did for a living, he was nonplussed. Totally caught off guard. He'd always thought everyone must know his dads. The world was still pretty small back then, and it seemed to be ruled by Jensen and Jared.

"They, uh . . ." 

And then Cal realized he didn't actually know. They gave orders to people, even Mark and Marshal. They talked on their phones, and went on a lot of business trips.

"They're business men."

That satisfied the other kid, but it didn't satisfy Cal. So the really memorable thing about the incident was the first time he asked Jared what he and Jensen did for a living, and Jared stared at him like the question caused him pain. It took a while - years - for Cal to understand why.


	11. Prompt - Anniversary

"Hey."

"Wha."

"Yesterday was our one year."

Silence. 

"Yeah. Fuck. Really?"

"Yeah. Huh. Seems longer."

"The year?"

"Seems we've been together longer. Married."

Sheets pull tight across Jared's body when Jensen shifts. "Did you want something?"

"I've got it. Got what I wanted. You?"

"Are you asking or telling?"

"Huh?"

"Never mind. Go'ta sleep."

Silence. 

"I'll blow you in the morning."


	12. Prompt - Callum/OMC, Jensen walks in on them

They shouldn't have done it in the family room, really, really shouldn't have done it at four in the afternoon. But in his defense, Jensen is practically never home a four. Jared either. Okay, maybe Jared, but Cal _knew_ he wouldn't be today. Jensen was, though. 

"Whoever the fuck you are, you're done here. Get out," Jensen says from the entryway, and Simon practically kicks Cal off the couch in a scramble to get himself tucked away and zipped up. Cal's in the same position and it’s his fucking dad standing there, Je-zus _Christ_. They’re still in uniform, so long shirts untucked, thank god, thank god. 

Jensen turns and leaves. Simon’s eyes are huge when he looks at Cal “You said your dads were gone.”

“They were.” Cal wants to die, right then. Disappear. Rewind time. He feels a little sick. 

He can’t ditch Simon, and they can’t stay in the family room forever. They shuffle to the kitchen where they dumped their bags and loaded up on food. Jensen’s there, leaning against the island counter, right in front of Simon’s bag. The only thing that stop Cal from turning around and leaving is Simon’s look that says, _leave me with your dad and I will kill you._

“So, Simon.” Jensen’s drinking a bottle of Deal With The Devil that Jared bought as a joke. Cal thinks it’s actually pretty good – and how does he have parents who let him drink but then pull stuff like this?

“He’s leaving.” Cal reaches around Jensen, grabs Simon’s bag. 

Jensen unfolds his arms, and he’s got Simon’s student ID between his fingers. “You’re eighteen, nineteen in a couple months?”

Simon glances at Cal, eyebrows furrowed. “Uh, yeah. I’m taking – ”

Jensen tilts his beer bottle at Cal. “He’s sixteen.” Jensen flicks the ID towards Simon and it falls short, sliding over the floor. “I see you with him again, you can expect a visit from the cops.” Jensen turns his head. “Marshal!”

Oh for fucks sake! It’s like his life is a fucking reality TV show, everything’s so dramatic. 

Marshal stops in the kitchen entryway, glancing from person to person. “Yeah, boss?” 

Jensen says, “Make sure Simon gets home safe,” and Cal has to turn away. His skin’s flaming hot and nervous laughter is filling up his chest. 

Simon does his eyebrow thing at Cal again, and Cal shrugs, smiles, gives a “see you later” wave. They’ll see each other next week, whatever Jensen says. 

When Simon leaves with Marshal, it’s time to disappear. Putting it off wont make it one iota better, but that doesn’t stop Cal from practicing avoidance like an art form. 

“Cal,” Jensen says before he’s even halfway across the kitchen. Fuuuuuuck. Cal switches course, goes for the refrigerator instead, pulls out a beer. 

He doesn’t look at his dad, studies the bottle as he pops the cap off. “Can we not talk about this? I know what you’re going to say, you know what I’m going to say. Let’s just not do the awkward.”

The silence makes him look up – Jensen’s studying him with a kind of grouchy expression – and right back down. God, he feels like he’s going to pass out, skin hot, palms wet. Jensen saw him two seconds away from going down on Simon. He was that close to seeing Cal with Simon’s dick in his mouth. 

That’s way too much to process and Cal stares fixedly out the closest window, swallows beer down as fast as he can. 

“Jared’s the one who lets you have that. Because he thinks you should have room to grow up. I got no problem giving you space, but that just means you have that much more room to fuck up.”

Cal digs fingers into his hair, chew on his lip, watches the patterns of weak sunlight over the floor. He decides on, “I wasn’t fucking up.”

“I didn’t a see a rubber on that kid’s dick. Think that’s smart?”

Cal clamps a hand over his eyes. Erase image. “Oh, Jesus, dad.”

Footsteps scuff in the entryway. “What’s up?” 

Jared. Cal glances over, but Jared’s looking at Jensen, question on his face. Jensen does a head tilt thing and Jared’s mouth twitches in a odd smile. Cal officially feels five years old. 

Jared shrugs out of his leather jacket, throws it over a chair on his way to the refrigerator. “Okay, let’s get this over with.”


	13. Prompt - Post!birth Jared tops

Jensen’s shit-faced like Jared’s never seen him before. He so out of it Jared has to drag him upstairs, tip him into bed. Jensen locks an arms around Jared’s neck last minute and takes Jared down with him. Jared lands on top and Jensen hooks a leg around both his to keep him there. 

“Hey,” he breathes in Jared ear. “You’re kind of hot.”

“You’re really drunk.”

“I’m so fucking drunk.” Jensen bites Jared’s neck, holds his teeth there. He’s grinding his hips up against Jared’s groin, in slow liquid movements. Jared’s a little hazy himself, feeling kind of warm and floaty, and it’s nice. He stays there. After a while they’re kissing, slow, warm and wet; Jared isn’t sure when that happened. 

Jared kicks his shoes off, gets his pants unbuttoned before he’s distracted by Jensen’s pants, the heavy weight of his dick pressing against the fabric. He goes for the buttons before the belt and Jensen rolls on top of him, ending the attempt. 

“You taste like orange,” Jensen mumbles against Jared’s collarbone. “Like fucking orange cream . . .” he sighs and shoves a hand under Jared’s shirt, splaying his hand over Jared’s belly. His little finger slides past the waistband of Jared’s pants. 

“These coming off?”

They roll apart, tugging off ties and shoving down pants and boxers. Jensen loses patience with the buttons, tries to yank his shirt off over his head and the seam rips, loudly. The look on his face sets Jared off, and he can’t stop laughing. Jensen tackles him back onto the bed. They’re rolling around like a couple of teenagers, and Jared ends up with his head over the edge of bed, Jensen straddling his thighs. He stares down at Jared's cock, half hard against his stomach. 

“S’nice,” Jensen says, like he’s talking to himself. He strokes a thumb low over Jared’s belly, bumping up against the base of Jared’s dick. Jared’s muscles tighten into a shiver. He watches Jensen’s face, lashes lowered. Jensen's skin is flushed all down his chest, and the color almost matches his dick, the head dark pink against paler foreskin.

Focusing on Jensen’s dick has Jared’s own cock filling out a little more, twitching against Jensen’s hand. Jensen curls two fingers around Jared, like he’s measuring. Not that he doesn’t know everything there is to know about Jared’s junk already. 

“Yeah,” Jensen says to Jared’s dick. “You should fuck me.”

An immediately it’s the best fucking idea Jared’s heard all night. He flails around trying to get upright, but Jensen plants a hand on his chest, keeping him down as Jensen leans over to get lube from the night stand drawer. They’re both clumsy as fuck and when Jared squeezes half a bottle of Slippery Stuff onto the bed. 

“Motherfucker,” Jensen laughs, swaying on his knees. 

Jared ends up with his back against the headboard and Jensen straddling his lap, guiding Jared cock in. Jensen’s motor skills are pretty jacked, but Jared can’t move to help, fingers clamped on Jensen’s hips as he slowly works himself down onto Jared’s dick. His fingers relocate, tangle in Jared’s hair, his breath hot against Jared’s skin and Jared’s moaning like he’s dying – he’s mostly certain he is. 

Jensen draws a long breath, holds it, lets it go slowly. His fingers ease up on Jared’s hair, stroke down his neck, pressing over Jared’s pulse point. Jared’s brain is offline, all his nerve endings looping their signals back to his dick. His takeaway for the night it a mind-blowing orgasm, and Jensen, loose and clumsy, mumbling “Eso, así precioso,” against his skin. 

They sleep through two alarms the next morning. The third one wakes Jared up, buried in soft sheets and pillows, Jensen’s arm heavy across his back.


	14. Prompt - Kelly + Jensen, Hero worship

Kelly’s still in highschool when he first hears about Jensen. The Doberman. Cillian’s guy. But it’s a few years more before he puts a face to name. 

He gets nailed with a misdemeanor his senior year. Trespassing and vandalism. It’s a fine and community service, and Kelly’s school gives him more trouble than the police do. Then, three weeks after graduation, he gets himself tangled up in bad fight, breaks up some asshole’s face. It wouldn't have been too bad, but there's a knife involved. Kelly’s pretty fucking clear that one’s going to be a felony, but somehow he slips it. He’s a kid with bad friends, the other guy threw the first punch, self defense, whatever lawyer shit Green says. 

Less a criminal, but that one gets him shipped off to college. In fucking Baltimore, of all places. It seems his dad is tired of wiping his ass every time he shits himself.

College isn’t Kelly’s thing; there’s more interesting shit out there to waste his life on. After three months, he’s skipping classes, ignoring emails from his professors. The night of his nineteenth birthday he’s doing body shots off a stripper, half lying on the stage, eight inch heels moving past his head. The club is a converted warehouse in Brooklyn, owned by someone in the family, and the name McNulty is richer than cash. Kelly’s got a group of guys with him, guys he knows from college, and they’re all getting special treatment. Drinks are free and the bouncers aren’t enforcing the “no touching” policy, the girls are pulling out all the stops. Kelly’s life is fucking awesome. 

“Hey, Kills.”

Not as awesome as it could be. No hiding, especially not in this city. Seems dad sent someone to haul Kelly’s ass back home. 

“Not allowed to call me that.” Kelly trips getting upright, grabs the nearest body, takes the stripper down with him. “Fuck, sorry.” They untangle, Kelly hands over her shiny silver bikini top. 

Before his dad’s guys haul him out of the VIP room, Kelly gets them to write a lot of nice zeros on a check for the girls. His college buddies can stay the whole night. Kelly’s fucking awesome at throwing parties. 

He meets The Doberman. 

Jensen’s late twenties-ish. It’s hard to tell. He smiles a lot without ever actually smiling. Kelly’s not real cognizant that night, but he puts it all together after introductions and some shit about Kelly’s fuck ups with the police. Jensen’s that guy. 

But the really important thing is, his dad’s letting him in, officially. No more college shit. Jensen’s his new boss. 

Jensen’s got a crew, some of the best earners in the family. Kelly’s not getting the full treatment, but he’s getting something. When he sees Jensen, which isn’t often, it’s pretty obvious the guy’s bored with it, but he’ll do it for Mike McNulty. Pretty much the first thing Jensen says to Kelly is, “You’re pretty fucking stupid if you think this kind of life doesn’t need a college degree.”

The first time Jensen pulls Kelly out of a tight spot is the first time Kelly really, genuinely thinks he’s going to die. He’s seen people die, quick, noisy and a little underwhelming. It made him sick first time - second, too - completely reactionary, and he had to swallow it down before he spewed all over in front of his crew. 

Death is a slippery concept. Hard to really examine. Nineteen, twenty, that's when other people die. Not you. You see a dozen guys topped, it’s still everyone else, not you. Then it is. 

Peter Whitaker is a guy who looks like he belongs on a tech assistance line. Maybe he used to be, and it killed his soul. Behind his eighties frames he’s got the deadest eyes Kelly’s ever seen. Four years he’s been bringing in the drugs. It’s the only thing he works with, wont touch anything else. Kelly heard one time he did it with a truck of cows, the decks in the animals stomachs. Still isn’t sure if that was true or not.

Jensen’s got this sixth sense thing. Judging by Jensen's attitude, it’s like getting a stick shoved up his ass, and when that happens he knows something isn’t kosher. It’s drizzling, miserable, waiting out on the cold. Whitaker is coming in on a Twin Otter, landing off strip. Jensen’s not talking, just smoking and brooding.

“We gonna need lights?” Kelly asks. 

“He’s on schedule,” Dekker says. 

They hear the plane before they see it. The place is an old Christmas tree farm, long stretch of road leading up to the barn that’s still there, and the plane lands smooth, keeps rolling till its up under the edge of the open roof. Kelly and another one of Jensen’s guys, Ollie, head right over to unload. No one’s getting out, and that doesn’t hit Kelly as odd till he’s right the fuck there, Ollie two steps behind him. He’s going to remember this moment till the day he dies for real. The propellers are still spinning lazily, the rain’s rattling way up overhead on the roof, Kelly’s nose is running from the cold, and the plane door swings open. The gunfire seems to come before the door moves, but Kelly knows that’s wrong. His jacket gets snapped back, the bullet passing between his torso and upper arm. The next shot gets him right over the hip. Later, is doesn’t look so bad, really just barely caught him, leaving a weirdly tiny entrance wound above his hip, but in the moment Kelly can’t tell if it just took out his kidney, or his whole fucking spine. 

Jensen doesn’t let him go out like a paper target. Kelly’s busy going to ground, getting sprayed with blood from the artery one of the bullets opened in Ollie’s neck, poor fucker. When he gets down there, cold, damp cement, he looks over and sees Jensen returning fire. The guy’s stone cold. He’s still got a cigarette between his lips. When things go quiet, Jensen says, “Check it,” and Dekker’s moving around behind Kelly. 

Then Kelly passes out. Because of shock, and anyone would, fuck you.

It’s not how Jensen tells it, but Kelly had a pretty limited view in the moment, not his fault. That shit sticks in his mind. He spends a few weeks at home, get used to the twins again, Nate showing up to be a bitch. As soon as he can stand to take a piss and not cry, he’s back to his own place. 

The fuck up was something to do with a crew up in Montana. Jensen is gone for a while, handling it himself. Kelly knows he's back when Jensen texts him an address and time. That's as good as an order. 

The place is a dive, but it’s got a basement shooting range and boxing rings. There’s a couple other guys a few lanes down, the noise of their shots slapping off the cement walls. 

“If you’re working with me, you’re going to learn to handle yourself.”

“I can shoot.” He’s not bad, either. Maybe not exceptional, but . . . 

Jensen brings his gun up, puts three holes over the heart of the human silhouette target. Kelly could cover them with the palm of his hand.

“Jesus. Do you not have a social life, or something?”

“I have too much social life. Here.” Jensen hands off the gun. It’s a SIG, a nice weight, good grip. Kelly’s actually a little surprised Jensen handed it over, he seems like a possessive bastard. 

“What’d you want, me to draw a cute picture with them? Connect the dots?” Kelly is pretty sure being supernaturally good with a gun wouldn’t have kept him hole-free. Pretty sure. 

Jensen brings the target in, pulls it down. “This is toilet training. I’m not going to let you out of the house until you can learn to not shit your pants.”

“Christ, you’re a cunt.” Kelly has to laugh, it’s so fucking dumb. He’s feeling pretty good though, good with a gun in his hands; the loud rocking shots aren’t taking him anywhere outside of the florescent-lit range. Kelly sets his stance, takes his shot. The gun sights are dead on. 

The next gun Kelly buys is a SIG Sauer. After a while, it's the only one he uses.


	15. Prompt - Family night

Jensen doesn’t like intentional crowds. Jared learned that early on. They make him edgy, annoyed. He can’t relax when he’s always on the lookout for a threat, and there’s always a potential threat in a crowd. If Jared wants to take Cal somewhere with lots of people, especially waiting lines, he’s learned not to ask Jensen. 

So he’s surprised when Jensen volunteers his company to the state fair. Really, insists on it. Jared loves his kid, and the guys aren’t the worst company, but it doesn’t hold up to Jensen. Wow, the dumb shit that asshole makes him think.

“We’ll have to leave early if we want to – ”

“We’ll fly.”

“That really necessary? We could drive like normal people.”

Jensen gives him a look. Right, normal people are scum. Jared rolls his eyes. 

For someone with ochlophobia the New York state fair is possibly the worst place on earth. Jensen looks indifferent to the noise and endless crowd. Bored. Jared knows he’s already got an exit strategy, and it doesn’t include low-casualties. Jared’s got one too, it’s two steps, simple. Body-shield Cal, get the fuck out of there. If the vehicles are blocked off, get inside a building with multiple exits, gain time too – 

“Jared, are we going candy?”

Jared looks down into Cal’s earnest baby eyes, because candy is a serious subject. “Yeah. Definitely.” 

Why does he even bring his kid out of the house?


	16. Prompt - Public Sex

Andie has the socialite life down perfectly. She looks the part, she has the connections, and she throws the parties. Jared knows she uses it to work her job, but even he has a hard time telling how much is mob business, how much is real. Musicians, artists, public figures - crowd cover or people deemed worthies of the exclusive event. 

Jared almost always has fun. Twelve-hundred dollar bottles of champagne, live music, interesting people - what’s not to like. Right now he’s having a conversation with a photographer - Hazel Lindquist, tall, fifties, wild sense of humor - about her recent trip to Antarctica with the National Science Foundation. She’s got some crazy stories about life at the camp, the scientist she lived with, the little community surrounded by ice and penguins. 

The odd pressure of someone’s gaze makes Jared turn. There’s a guy standing across the room, in front of one of the paintings, but he’s watching Jared. Their gazes meet and they guy smiles slow, nods. There’s something familiar about him, but Jared can’t place it. He looks away, but in his peripheral can see the guy is moving, making his way towards Jared. 

Jensen makes it hard for Jared to pay attention to other guys. Or girls. There’s a lot of pretty people, especially in New York, but Jensen sets an impossible standard. Jared get’s his share of attention, but life is different than it would have been. Bodyguards, Jensen, the names McNulty and Ackles – it opens doors, frees a space around Jared, limiting his casual encounters.

The guy’s there, lurking, waiting for Jared to finish his conversation, making it obvious. Jared has no problem ignoring him, but Hazel glances over, says, “Seems I’m monopolizing you.”

The guy is close enough to hear, and laughs. He has deep creases at the corners of his eyes when he smiles. “I can wait my turn.”

He waits while Jared gets Hazel Lindquist’s website address for the schedules and locations of her exhibitions. The guy is relaxed, easy smile and manner. Jared’s still trying to place him when Lindquist leaves and guy steps up, offer his hand.

“Greg Powell.”

Strong grip, callouses. Jared’s ring is obvious, but Greg not looking. “Jared Ackles. How do you know Andie?”

Greg’s mouth opens, amused surprise. “Andie?”

Jared let’s go of his hand, steps back. “Andrea.” Doesn’t elaborate. Greg doesn’t seem to recognize the name Ackles, so he’s not a VIP.

Greg’s still smiling, his gaze drops for a second before returning to Jared’s face. “We met at one of my concerts.”

Jared glances past Greg, scanning the room for Jensen. He’s honestly interested in his husband’s location, but he also did it to fuck with Greg a little. Some of the people Andie invited to these things had an overinflated sense of self-importance. 

“She’s . . .” Greg trails off. 

Jared returns his focus. “She’s?”

“Am I keeping you?”

Jared shrugs. “No. You’re a musician?”

Greg licks his lips, shifts his balance, forges ahead. “Yeah, kind of folk, world music. I’ve got band called Novolunie.”

“New moon?”

Greg grins. His teeth are unnaturally white. “Right. You speak Russian?”

“I ran across the Russian translation of the Twilight series.”

Greg laughs, nearly drops his drink, and Jared smiles at that more than anything. 

“Reads Twilight, and he listens to Dragonette.” Jensen’s hand lands on Jared’s back, moves to his shoulder, gripping hard. 

“I downloaded their new album on your phone.” There’s a mellow edge of cigarette smoke under the smell of Jensen’s cologne and it makes Jared restless, hungry.

Jensen’s fingers, brush over the ends of Jared’s hair. “Right. How much do you like your car?”

Greg’s covering his confusion with a smile, watching the exchange. Jared’s a nice guy, he clues him in. 

“Jensen, Greg . . .”

“Greg Powell,” Greg supplies, darting forward, hand out. 

“Great.” Jensen shakes his hand. “Jensen Ackles.”

It takes Greg a moment, and Jared watches him come to the conclusion Jared wont be leaving the party with him. 

Greg nods, a “well, fuck” look on his face. “It was nice meeting both of you.” He gestures with his drink. “I’m going to go top this off.”

Jensen turns his head to watch Greg go. “Dumb fucker.”

Jared laughs. 

“Why’d I even buy you that ring?”

“Not everyone cares about rings.”

“Assholes.”

“I guess”

“You guess?”

“Where were you smoking?”

Jensen looks at him. “You need one?”

On the terrace Jensen taps out a cigarette, hands the pack to Jared. “Where does Andie find these people?”

“Concerts.”

Jensen grunts, flicks his lighter. The side of the terrace they’re on is unoccupied, but the noise of laugher and conversation carries from around the house.

Mark followed them out, but he’s keeping his distance. Jared sticks a cigarette between his lips and twists around, looking for him. “Hey,” he calls, and tosses the pack. Mark catches it in one hand. Jared knows he isn’t drinking, he never drinks “on the job”. It has to take the fun out of things.

Jensen offers Jared a light, cupping his hand to block the slight breeze. His thumb runs under Jared’s jaw as they separate. Mark’s footsteps scuff over the stone and Jared turns, watches as Jensen lights him up, too. 

Muffed music from the ballroom, club stuff. Andie has a Norwegian DJ playing, some big name Jared’s never heard of. Jensen’s leans back against the railing, pulls Jared forward, between his legs. He takes a deeps drag on his cigarette. Jared watches the way his jaw moves, Jensen’s lips around the cigarette. Jensen drops his hand, not exhaling. Smoke leaks from between his lips, and Jared moves in for a kiss. 

Jared doesn’t smoke much. Maybe once or twice a month. Long before he lit up on his own, he was getting it from Jensen’s cigarettes, taking a drag as Jensen held it, or straight from Jensen’s mouth. Jared doesn’t try to figure out his weird attraction to Jensen and smoking, and Jensen uses it like he uses everything that turns Jared on. Even when Jared’s holding his own burning cigarette, he’d rather take it straight from Jensen. For Jared it’s not the nicotine or the comforting burn, as nice as those are.

Jensen’s tongue moves against Jared’s, and Jared seals his mouth over Jensen’s, breaths in deep. Jensen’s fingers tighten on his hip, hook into Jared’s belt loop. Jared pull back slow, exhales. 

“Good?” Jensen tugs on the belt loop, pulling Jared against him, pressing Jared’s hardening dick into his thigh. He’s watching Jared, slow, lingering. 

Jared’s intellectually aware of Mark, ten feet away, a house full of people, the wide open terrace, the thin cover of night under bright white lights from the house, the whole place lit up. It used to heat him up with arousal and shame, the shit him and Jensen did, get him shivering and sick to his stomach even as his cock twitched and drooled, too fucking stupid to know better. Now, it hardly registers. Normalization, like a drug addiction, needing more and more to get the same high. 

Jensen straightens, grabbing Jared’s hip as he swings them around, pushing Jared into the railing. It’s a perfect height to lean his elbows on, gripping the edge to brace himself, and Jensen’s grinding up against his ass, rocking them forward. 

Jared grinds his cigarette out against the stone railing and spreads his legs for leverage to work his ass against Jensen’s crotch. Jensen isn’t really reacting to I’m-a-musician-Greg. His perception of a threat is something Jared still can’t decipher, the weirdest shit sets him off, some understanding of their world Jared doesn’t have. But Jared getting attention from other people never hurts as a reminder he really is fucking hot.

Jensen leans over Jared’s back, nosing into his hair. “Stay still.” His hand is on Jared’s belt, working it open. Cool air works inside, washing over Jared’s hot, hard cock as Jensen’s works his pants down over his ass. The thick line of Jensen’s dick through his suit pants, bumps against Jared’s bare ass and his drops his head between his shoulders, bites his lip to stay quiet. If he starts, Jensen will drag it out, and Jared needs it now.

Jensen’s hand’s there. “Spit.” Jared works up a mouthful of saliva. He got over how filthy sex is a long time ago and having Jensen open up with ass with his own saliva doesn’t even faze him balances against the promise of orgasm. Jensen makes him question every moral stance he has, sanitation isn’t even on the fucking list.

Jensen works two fingers in before it gets really good and Jared groans aloud. Jensen’s fingers smooth over Jared’s ass cheek, curl in into the crease of his thigh and groin. “Keep it down,” he murmurs, working fingers in and out, slipping over Jared’s prostate, and Jesus Christ, how does he expect Jared to stay quiet when he’s doing that. 

Jared tilts his head, looking over his shoulder to find Mark’s dark shape, back towards them, smoke backlit by the house lights. Mark’s probably seen it all, long before Jared even showed up. He never seems to give a shit about anything Jensen and Jared do around him.

Jensen’s fingers pull out and Jared waits, braced and aching for it, trying to relax but tight with need. His own breathing is loud in his ears, the other noises distant. The rough texture of the stone under his palms, the slick slide of Jensen’s cock head over his hole, the ball of the piercing catching at Jared’s rim. 

Jared whimpers when he’s breached. His hair is in his eyes, pulling to his open mouth with each inhale. Shoes scrape against stone, Mark shifting his stance. Jensen’s cock is sliding in, slow and so fucking good; Jared feels the pressure all the way into his stomach, and he whines in the back of his throat, can’t stop it. Jensen makes a shushing sound. A hand gropes up under the edge of Jared’s jacket, palm and fingers splaying over his lower back. 

Voices and footsteps from the door leading out onto the terrace, has Jared tensing, his brain too fogged for a full-blown response, but increasingly aware there’s a group of people just around the corner, their view of Jensen’s cock in Jared’s ass blocked by a huge stone pot and topiary. 

Jensen rocks forward, bottoming out, fabric and belt buckle pressed against Jared’s ass. “You scream and someone shows up, I’m not stopping.”

 _God no don’t stop don’t stop,_ Jared thinks, hardly even registering the rest of it, the picture in his head some version of porn he knows he’ll regret later. Jensen inside him leaves no room for rational thinking. Everything’s good in the warm, sparking heat of arousal, wont fade till he’s on the other side of it, limp and spent. 

Jensen pulls back, presses on Jared’s back to get him angled down, leans forward, sliding back in, a deep, heavy drag. Jared open-mouthed gasp wants to turn into a real noise. He’s 1.2 seconds from telling Jensen _right there, again_ when Jensen’s hand clamps over his mouth. 

“Shhh,” Jensen’s breath blow against Jared’s hair. Laugher breaks through Jared’s distraction, close and loud. The group is still there.

Jared grunts against Jensen’s hand, and Jensen eases up without removing his hand. He fucks Jared slow and deep, grinding into each thrust. Jared’s got his mouth open panting hard against Jensen’s palm. He flicks his tongue over the salty skin. Sweat rolls down his side, prickling under his shirt. Jensen’s hand is low on his back, his thumb riding the top of Jared’s ass crack. 

_”He’s not even supposed to be there, but every fucking day . . ._

_“I don’t even care anymore. I’m so over it. Right?_

The conversation is only blocked by Jared’s own harsh breathing, through his nose, blowing back from Jensen’s hand, the dirty wet sounds of their fucking. When Jensen drives down against Jared’s prostate a sharp noise breaks free from his throat. Jensen’s fingers grip a warning, and then he repeats the move, fucking bastard, like he wants Jared to come apart, noisy and uncontrolled. Jared sobs under the wave of pleasure, a heat wave under his skin. He’s arching his back, trying to move into it, his fingers abraded by his grip on the stone rail.

“You must really want an audience,” Jensen whispers, hoarse. Jared can hear the smile in his voice. “Gonna have to call Mark over here to keep you quiet. Hey, shh,” he says when Jared groans. He’s laughing, soundless, air moving over Jared’s sweat skin when he leans close, rolling his hips against Jared’s ass. 

“You wouldn’t even care, would you,” Jensen whispers. Jared isn’t sure which part he’s talking about, but it’s all mixing with the crazy, building high. Jensen’s hand comes of Jared’s mouth, cold air against’ wet skin, and then Jensen’s pushing two fingers into Jared’s mouth. 

Jared can’t see, but there’s movement, voices, then Mark’s voice responding, and Jensen laughs, a low and rough. “Loud mouth,” he says to Jared. 

Jared’s skin is burning hot, friction and tension building. Jensen pulls his fingers out of Jared’s mouth, reaching round to fist Jared’s dick. He gives two firm strokes and Jared’s coming, jerking his hips into Jared’s hands, not even trying to stay quiet anymore, giving it all up to control of his body. When he’s done shooting come all over Andie’s stone terrace - no, Christ, don’t think about that - Jared folds forward, bracing his arms while Jensen finishes up. They stay like that for a moment. The voices are gone, headed off by Mark and in a few minutes Jared might take a moment to rethink his life, but not right now. He shivers hard when Jensen pulls out, but doesn’t change position, let’s Jensen pull his pants up, zip his fly. 

“Not carrying you, you’re going to have to walk.” Jensen’s voice has that glorious rasp it gets after sex, lazy and deep. 

“Just leave me here,” Jared mumbles into his arms. 

Jensen makes a noise. “Mark.”

“Yeah.” Mark’s voice is way closer than Jared expected. 

“Have them bring the car around. I think we’re done for the night.” 

Once Mark’s gone, Jared raises his head, straightens. His hair’s sticking to sweaty skin and he can feel Jesnen’s come tricking down his ass crack. Yeah, maybe it has nothing to do with the champagne, but he has fun at these parties.


	17. Prompt -  Slow, happy and fucking pretty

Jared has a dream he's trying to use medical tape to tie up a massive manta ray. The animal's skin is so slimy, Jared can't get a grip, the tape wont stick, and each time the ray flaps it sends Jared rolling around like he's on a slip 'n slide. 

He wakes up when Jensen rolls on top of him. Jared knows he’s not really awake - his breathing is still slow and deep and the arm slung over Jared's chest is heavy and limp. Jared drops his arm over Jensen’s hip, skates his fingers down to tuck under the waistband of Jensen’s boxers.

Jensen’s breath is stale with sleep and warm on Jared’s skin. Short hair brushes Jared’s jaw, blurs in the edge of his vision. The outside light is grey and fuzzy. After a while it’s light enough for Jared to see it’s snowing, slow, thick flakes spinning past the glass. 

“You molesting me in my sleep?” Jensen’s lips move against Jared’s skin. His voice is deep and gravely, makes heat pool in Jared’s belly. 

“Yeah.” Jared says, works his hand further down Jensen’s ass, thumbs over his hipbone. “Too bad you woke up. Was going to roll you over, take a ride.”

“Don’t let consciousness stop you.”

“Maybe I wont.” 

Neither of them move, Jared curling his fingers in the crease of Jenen’s thigh and ass. Jensen’s hand strokes up Jared’s back, trails over his collarbone, his thumb smoothing down Jared’s throat, pausing in the hollow, moving back up. 

When Jensen finally roles onto his back, grabbing Jared’s thigh to take him along, it’s light enough in the room to see everything. Jensen’s hair is a mess, his lips red and chapped, his eyes still sleep-heavy. Jared braces his hands on either side of his husbands head, can’t stop his lazy, stupid grin, seeing Jensen like this. 

“What,” Jensen asks, trying to work Jared’s underwear off. 

_I fucking love you._ “Lube.”

“Left one, second drawer,” Jensen says. 

When Jared crawls off him to go after it, Jensen’s reaches, grips Jared's ankle. His fingers don’t let go till they both come. 

They don’t leave the bed till it’s ten o’clock and Jensen’s phone has five missed calls.


	18. Prompt - Jensen teaches Jared to shoot

Two days later, six in the morning, Jared was watching coffee brew, soaking in the smell and thinking of nothing. He didn’t notice Jensen was even in the room till something heavy was set down in the counter. 

“Hey.” Jared said, trying to determine Jensen’s mood. The dead stillness was gone, thank god. That scared the shit out of Jared, he wasn’t ashamed to admit. Right now Jensen just looked tired. His hair was damp, his feet were bare under the frayed hems of his jeans. Normal. 

Jensen moved his hand and Jared got a better look at what he set on the counter. A gun. A pistol. Jared’s education of firearms came from video games, "black handgun" is as good as he could do. But _why_ it was there is making him nervous. 

“What’s with the gun?”

Jensen picked it up again, holding it by the barrel, set it on the counter beside Jared. “It’s yours.”

“I don’t . . .” _Need, want, have any idea what to do with a gun._ That was Jensen’s thing, part of what Jensen did. How he did it. 

“I’m not a huge fan of CoD, if you didn’t know, so – ”

“You wont need it, but you should know how to use it without shooting yourself.”

“That was going to be the second thing I brought up.”

Jensen gave him a dead-flat look. “Grab your coffee. Today’s your first lesson.”

Jensen drove them and Jared didn’t bother trying to hold a conversation. He drank his coffee, watched the traffic, every sense aware of Jensen without really looking at him. The strap of Jensen's driving gloves were undone. He frowned and drank his coffee. At two different stop lights he glanced over at Jared, the movement caught at the edge of Jared’s vision. 

The third time he looked over: “Mark’s good at his job.”

Jared took a long swallow of coffee, waited. 

“I wouldn’t let him have you if he wasn’t. You’re not gonna need this.”

“Okay.”

Jensen ran his tongue along his teeth, nodded. 

The place Jensen took him to was in a shitty neighborhood in Brooklyn, that kind of place Jared wouldn’t want to walk alone at night. Or day. Anytime. 

“You’re just going to leave your car?” 

Jensen glanced back at the Corvette. “Yeah, it’s fine.”

Jared shrugged for his own benefit. It was Jensen’s insurance. 

It was dead inside, easy acoustic music echoing over the speaker system. Squeaky wheels on a mop bucket faded away somewhere beyond the bar and someone laughed. Jensen led Jared straight to wide stairs going down, yellowing tile under fluorescent lights. A landing and a turn, the temperature dropping a few degrees. 

The foyer at the bottom of the stairs stretched into a hallway, going both directions. Straight ahead was what looked like a gym. The room beyond the foyer wasn’t lit, but Jared could make out a wall of mirrors catching light behind row of weight equipment. One, two boxing rings, free-standing heavy bags. Jensen headed straight down the open hallway, past the gym, through an open doorway and the hall turned again. 

“What’s the gym for?”

“Justin keeps a couple fighters around. Some of the guys train here.”

"Justin?” 

“One of the owners.”

Jensen shoved open a door, flipped on the lights. “I’ll get you some gear.”

Jared watched Jensen go. He was wearing jeans tight enough to really show off his legs and ass, that natural swagger. The jeans would look good unzipped, too, framing Jensen’s dick. 

Jensen stepped into a glassed-in office, cutting off Jared’s view below the waist. Jared watched him moving around behind the windows, opening the gun safe. He hadn’t had any trouble with the security code for the office door, either. Jared wasn’t sure if that meant Jensen actually owned the place or if it was just someone in the family. 

There were a couple candy machines and a couch against the wall; Jared dug out a few dollar bills and started feeding them into the machine He was loaded up with gummy bears, Reese’s pieces and bloody bones when Jensen’s footsteps echoed across the room. He glanced at Jared, tilted his head in the direction of the shooting lanes and Jared started over, ripping open a package of gummy bears as he went. 

“Three rules,” Jensen said when Jared stepped into the booth beside him. There were two ear protectors on the counter, three boxes of ammunition stacked on top of each other. The black lock case was open, guns and magazines in their foam cutouts. 

“Guns are always loaded. Don’t point a gun at anything you don’t want to shoot. Keep your finger off the trigger unless you’re going to shoot something. And do not fucking shoot yourself.”

Jared took another handful of gummy bears. “That’s a gun safety rule?”

Jensen wiped a hand over his mouth, eyes tracking Jared’s hand. “Yeah.” He looked away. “So the Glock,” Jensen touched two fingers to the black gun, “is yours. It’s basically idiot proof.” A smile tilted the edge of Jensen’s mouth.

“Shouldn’t you be using it, then?” 

Jensen grinned, and Jared felt the mood ease. Jared tossed the gummy bears onto the counter, reached for the gun. 

Jensen's gaze followed his movement. “The magazine’s out, but you always check for a load in the chamber.”

Jared might not have handled a gun in real life, but he’d played enough video games and watched enough action movies to know how to work the moving parts of a pistol. But this close to Jensen, Jared could smell the warm scent of his cologne, the leather of his jacket, so he just held the gun and made a confused face. 

Jensen stepped in close enough to direct Jared’s hands in working the slide. “Empty.” 

“Right.” Jared could smell the coffee on Jensen’s breath and he worked his tongue against the sticky candy caught in his teeth, the phantom sensation of Jensen’s lips warm on his skin.

“Load it.” 

Jared slid the magazine into place, stood waiting for Jensen’s next instructions. 

Jensen looked at him. “Slide release, right there.”

Jared snapped the slide in place, half raised the gun, his grip purposefully wrong. 

“Get your thumb down, the slide will catch it.”

“Like . . .”

Jensen stepped in, pulling Jared’s hands in to adjust his grip. God, he smelled good. Jared wished Jensen wasn't wearing gloves, would have liked to feel skin. 

“Like this.”

“How do you want me?”

Jensen’s fingers stayed on Jared’s wrist. “Stance, normal. Feet forward, both arms straight.”

“You sure?” 

Jensen laughed, fingers tightening on Jared’s wrist, his other hand pulling the gun from Jared’s grip. “You fucking cock tease.”

“Working on it,” Jared said, leaned in for a kiss only to be pulled away by Jensen grabbing his jacket collar. 

Jensen’s gaze moved from Jared’s lips, meeting his eyes. “You get three bull’s-eyes and I’ll fuck you right here.”

Jared sighed, leaned back. “Give me that fucking gun.


	19. Prompt - PTA meeting

When two hundred and fifty pounds of tattooed gangbanger slams Jared into a cement retaining wall, his goddamn phone is in his pocket. After that the whole night is a clusterfuck, and Jared has more important things keeping his attention; the phone isn’t that important. 

Two days later, Jared is reminded when Jensen says, “I just got a call from Cal’s school. Says we missed some – ”

“Shit!” Jared cuts him off. “That was yesterday. I had it on my phone to remind myself.”

“Now his principal wants to see us.”

“Shit.”

— 

“Thank you for coming,” Principal Hawking says. She’s not much older than Jensen, tall, deep smile lines. 

“Yeah, ‘course,” Jared says. “Sorry we missed the meeting, I lost my phone. Completely forgot.”

“Oh, too bad. I know how that is. We – ”

“Why don’t we get to reason for this meeting, Ms. Hawking,” Jensen says through one of his dead-eyed smiles. He’s taking it personally, like a meeting with the principal is a direct insult. 

“Right.” Hawking glances at Jared. “Of course. Well, there’s not a whole lot. Cal’s a great kid, we all love him. He’s very engaging, active in class – ”

“So what’s the problem?”

Hawking raises her eyebrow. Jensen’s kind of being a dick, but Jared knows he’s worried about Cal, so . . .

Principal Hawking glances down at a typed sheet of paper on her desk. “Some of Cal’s teachers have mentioned that his language is very adult for a child his age. Last week during his social studies he said - and this is a direct quote - ‘Columbus was a shit-bag. He cheated. He told this one guy to watch and then he pretended he saw land first and got a prize for it. That’s a fuck-chop move’”.

There’s a moment of silence, and then Jensen gives a snort of laughter. Jared has to turn away to hide his smile. It’s not funny, like humorous funny, because it might be damaging his kid’s education, but it’s pretty ridiculous. 

“I’m curious to know,” Hawking says, “What a fuck-chop is?”

“Um,” Jared clears his throat. “A screw up. Someone who screws up. I think it’s army slang.”

“Your son has an expansive vocabulary.”

“He does.”

Jensen looks over at Jared. “Is that one from Mark?”

“Yeah, probably.”

Jensen laughs again. 

Principal Hawking is looking between Jared and Jensen, a growing awareness in her expression. Jared almost feels bad for her. Almost.


	20. Prompt - False Labor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
>  SPOILERS AHOY!   
>  **
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> CO = Correctional Officer.  
> Greenlit = targeted for a hit

By the time he gets his bail hearing Jared’s had forty-eight hours of bad food and no privacy, but what’s really getting to him is the smells. One of his federal escorts is wearing some shitty cologne and the chemical smell is so thick Jared can taste it. There’s a line of pain drilling in behind his eyes. 

He’s been refused bail. It wasn’t a surprise, but Jared’s lawyers will keep fighting it anyway. Until his trial Jared’s new home is a detention center in Brooklyn. Jared knows everyone who has ever gone after the McNulty family is hoping having him locked up will push him—push Jensen— into making a deal. They’re holding out for something good, but they’re going to lose. Fuck them all.

“A few months. A year, tops,” Jensen whispers against Jared’s hair, and Jared nods. He’s tired, so fucking tired. That isn’t about to change. Prison isn’t the most restful of environments.

Jensen’s tense, the muscles in his arms and shoulders twitching under Jared’s hands, but his grip is steady, his voice is calm. He isn’t trying to sugarcoat anything. “A year” isn’t a comforting estimate, but it’s honest. Jared wants honest, he can handle whatever else comes. 

“Little Billy and Goldland are going to take care of you. You need anything, you ask. They’ll get it.”

“Watch out for Cal,” Jared says. “He might get some shit from all this at school, or from his friends. I don’t— ”

Jensen stops him, gripping the hair at the back of Jared’s head to pull him into a hard kiss. “I got it. It got it,” he breathes against Jared lips, kisses him again, rough and desperate. Jared’s chest aches. He knows how Jensen’s feeling. He’s been right there, more than once before. It a tedious game of cooperating with the system just enough to slip its grasp. You sustain injury, it’s inevitable. 

“Time to get going.”

Jared steps back, Jensen’s hands falling away reluctantly. Jared licks his lips, the last taste of Jensen he’ll have for a while. 

“See you soon,” Jensen says. Jared nods, smiles, doesn’t let doubt show.

— 

Jared is sick in the fed’s van. 

He’s wearing prison garb, wrinkled and abrasive against sweaty skin. Before they left the building his guards locked him back into the cuffs and shackles, hands to feet, forcing Jared to shuffle along as they walked him to the vehicle. It’s so fucking unnecessary, all of it. The smell of sweat and metal and cologne and mint inside the windowless rocking of the transport vehicle starts a heavy lump of nausea in Jared’s stomach. He feels the hot liquid rising in his throat and only has time to lurch forward, upchuck more in the direction of one of his federal escorts. 

“Shit!” the guy yells. The profanity is echoed, the guys in the front lagging behind as they turn to see what’s going on. 

Jared chokes on a laugh, even though he’s not feeling uplifted, doesn’t see the humor. Anything that pisses them off. Still, turns out puking makes him feel better, settles his nausea. 

“Guess being handcuffed doesn’t agree with me.”

“You fucking animal,” one of the men says, with deep, weary feeling. The whole van reeks of vomit. 

A few months. Just a few goddamn months. 

Jared’s not thinking beyond that, not about fifteen to twenty-five years. 

— 

All the time totaled up, Jared knows Jensen has spent almost eight years incarcerated. County lockup, state penitentiary, juvenile detention. He’s never hidden it from Jared, but he doesn’t talk about it unasked. Jared thinks he’s less bothered by prison itself than the idea that someone would have the gall to lock him up at all. They’re paying for it now.

As dark as Jensen stories are, they don’t convey the reality of incarceration. There’s a texture to it that cannot be learned secondhand, or by cooling your heels in a cell for drunken disorderly and public indecency. And federal prison is the luxury version.

Jared spends his first night in the medical intake screening unit. Before he can take a shower he has to strip in front of a correctional officer who scans him up and down with casual attention. Jared doesn’t look away, and it’s a stalemate. The guy smirks, tells Jared to bend over, and Jared’s low mood, the red, brittle place he’s been in for days, surges up. He imagine snapping the CO’s nose, kicking his knees in so they bend the wrong way. 

Sitting in his cell wearing clothes that don’t fit, smelling the stink of the place, Jared tries to lock it down. He’s felt off for days, maybe weeks. He can’t afford to fuck this up. Jensen and Angela will take care of the trial, Jared just has to wait, not give the prosecution anything new to work with. 

But that’s not really under his control, turns out. 

“There was no mention of your pregnancy in the – ”

“My what?” Jared snaps.

It’s been over twenty four hours since his medical examination and Jared can’t wait to get the fuck out of here into a regular unit. The word “pregnant” takes a few seconds for him to process, to know it’s not some fuck on the part of the doctor. But he’s been gagging at all sorts of smells, he’s been way too tired, he tossed his cookies in the van. Normally, he would have noticed the signs. 

The doctor doesn’t bother looking at Jared, scribbles on his clipboard. “I’ll take that to mean you didn’t know.” 

“Obviously not.” Jared wants to be angry—he _is_ angry. For getting himself into this situation, for being unable to change it. It’s the worst fucking timing possible. No way to hide it now. The whole complex will know before Jensen does. Jensen will hear the news from someone who isn’t Jared. 

— 

Jared’s actually glad to be assigned a unit. I means he has access to commissary and visitation, but more importantly, McNulty people.

Jared’s never met Little Billy. Turns out he actually is little, five-six at the most. For some reason Jared hadn’t expected that. Billy makes up for it with his shadow, a massive guy called Saint Michael, shortened to Saint. Jared knows there must a good story behind that one, but he doesn’t bother asking, and it doesn’t come up.

Other guys in his cellblock— some Jared knows, some he doesn’t— come up and introduce themselves, pay respects. A cynical edge of Jared’s mind laughs at that. Fucking lot of good it’s going to do them. 

The whole time Jared’s scanning for the inmates he needs to watch for. Billy gave him the run down. Members of gangs that aren’t going to like Jared because he’s an Ackles, because he’s a McNulty, because he’s white, (because he’s pregnant), too tall, what-the-fuck ever. He’s high-profile, he’s got a reputation, and now he’s vulnerable.

“It’s your first time inside.” Billy makes it half a question. “So me an’ Saint, the guys,” he nods around the room, “you need any help settling in, you let us know, yeah?”

“Yeah, thanks.” Jared’s not really paying attention. He’s keeping an eye on the room, the movement of the other inmates, the COs, but the rest of his attention is churning around in his head, focused on his new problem. Before he was taken to his new unit, Jared filled out the medical request for an obstetrician. In the time that took, he could have called his own doctor, had her there in thirty minutes. The whole system runs on wasted time and energy. The last fucking thing he wants is to depend on the medical staff of a motherfucking prison to insure his kid makes it into the world healthy. 

God, _his kid._ That thought brings visions of Cal, tiny baby Cal, fragile bones and soft skin, totally helpless. Jared feels that bitter anger rising again, pushes it down. 

— 

The food is shit. That’s something popular media gets right. Jared doesn’t have to eat it, Billy gets him whatever he wants from outside, but God, he’s so sick. Way sicker than he was with Cal. 

And Jensen. Jared doesn’t think he’ll do anything too rash, nothing stupid like make-a-deal stupid, but if he’s honest he can’t really predict how Jensen will react when he finds out about the baby. It’s a game changer. Angela will want to try and use it to get Jared bail, but Jared knows it wont work. The establishment gives no fucks about Jared, or his kid.

“Hack’s comin,” Saint murmurs.

Jared raises his head. He’s feeling lethargic, trying not to show it and failing. “Fucking finally,” he grunts. 

More than Saint’s eyes are on Jared as he follows the CO out. 

— 

The doctor is running the ultrasound machine himself, because the feds would rather haul in the doctor and equipment than let Jared outside. Jared not making anything out on the screen, when the doctor makes an odd noise. “Oh.”

“Oh what,” Jared says, pissed. Default state these days.

“Nothing’s wrong,” the doctor says slowly. Jared knows names were exchanged, but he can’t remember it. “But it looks like you’re getting two for one.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jared whispers, pressing a hand over his eyes. It’s Murphy’s Law. 

The transducer slides over Jared’s belly, pressing into each of Jared’s measured breaths, and the doctor lets the silence hang. 

“They okay?” Jared makes himself ask. He’s going to have to tell Jensen something. 

“They both look great. I’m going to put you at about ten weeks. That sound right?”

Nothing sounds right. Jared turns his head, looks at the screen. At his kids. Two little lumps in a pocket of black. 

— 

Jared knows he’s being fucked with. It’s been three weeks and still no one approved on his visiting list. He brings it up twice, get’s no response. 

Maybe it’s the pregnancy, maybe it’s prison, maybe it’s everything at once, but Jared’s unraveling. He can feel it in his muscles, in his teeth, in the pull of his lungs with each breath. He throws up lunch every day and there’s no way to hide it. The whole unit knows. Jared gets an escort everywhere, someone is always hanging around, watching his back, and it makes Jared all the more irritable. 

Two days after he finds about the babies, plural, he get’s a visit from Angela. She’s wearing a suit that costs three months of a CO’s salary, and her expression stone dead. She waits till they’re alone before she says, “He’ll be able to see you soon. I’m passing on his message for you to eat.”

Jared almost gags at the word. “What the fuck does he think I’m doing?”

“Not eating.”

Angela doesn’t say anything else about Jensen, and Jared doesn’t ask. He has a growing headache, can’t focus on what Angela’s saying about his case. 

Before she leaves, Jared reaches to touch her hand, pause her. “Tell him it’s two,” Jared says, head down, eyes closed against the pain wrapping around his eye socket, down the bridge of his nose. “Twins.”

Angela’s hand presses back for a just a second before withdrawing. “He knows.”

— 

Federal prisons are the luxury hotels of the system. Some of the shit places McNulty members have gone to, places Jared has heard stories about, make Jared’s detention look like a vacation. 

But Jared’s not into that comparison shit. Neither is Jensen. When Jensen sees Jared for the first time since he went inside, he gets a look on his face Jared has only see a few times. It’s confusion, rage, fear, sadness—at close as Jensen gets to looking utterly helpless. His mouth turns down, and for a second Jared thinks his husband is fighting tears. Then Jensen grabs him, pulls him into a hug, arms crushing down on Jared’s shoulders. His voice is steady when he whispers, “Goddamn ‘s good to see you.”

Jared chokes out a laugh against Jensen shoulder, both hands gripping Jensen’s jacket, just for a second leaning into his solid grip. 

They separate and Jensen looks completely composed. Relaxed, indifferent. It steadies Jared’s uncertain nerves. 

“Cal?” Jared asks.

“Good,” Jensen says. “Obsessed with baseball.”

“Good,” Jared says. Something to distract Cal from all the shit that’s flying around.

Jensen nods, taps his thumb on the edge of the table. “So Angela’s got you all up to date?” 

— 

Jared’s gotten too used to having money, too used to the things money can do. Under the thumb of fuckhead feds, everything is waiting, and waiting, and waiting. He asks for nausea meds, and has to wait to see the doctor, wait for his prescription, wait for shit to be lost and sorted. 

Jared looks up from the toilet, feeling shaky and sweaty, and Billy’s standing there, pointedly ignoring him. 

Jared shuffles to the sink, turns on the water, starts swishing and rinsing. 

He turns the tap off. “You’re never going to give me any space, are you.”

Billy shrugs. “Not my call.”

Jared grimaces. His mouth and throat ache. “This water’s shit. Can you get something better?”

— 

The one time Jared is away from the protection of Jensen’s guys is when he’s visiting the doctor. He’s escorted by a CO, but that just makes it worse in Jared’s book. 

Everything is different about pregnancy, this time around. Jared doesn’t think it can all be attributed to the additional passenger. Noise drives him fucking crazy now, the constant commotion in his unit making him too irritated to think. He’s pissed at everything, all the time. He tired, but can’t sleep. 

“Must suck, being inside with a kid on the way.”

The CO—a woman, Trotter or Terrence or something—is trying to make conversation, but Jared’s not fooled. She’s got that gleam in her eye that says she’d love a chance to fuck Jared over. 

When Jared doesn’t say anything she cracks her gum and raises an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah, gonna be like that?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Better watch yourself, Ackles. No one likes a fucking wise-ass.”

— 

A fight breaks out in the unit, and Saint practically drags Jared across the room, well out of the way of conflict. It takes a while for the COs to break it up. After that, Jared goes and pukes, again.

— 

“You’re still sick?” 

Jensen says it like he’s bored, like it’s just something to say. His fingers tap restlessly. 

Jared sighs. “Yeah. Doc says it’s because there’s two of them.”

Jensen makes a scoffing noise. 

“Could mean they’re girls,” Jared says to see Jensen’s eyes go wide, turning back to Jared. 

“Shit, really?”

“Yeah.” Jared has some joke he wants to make, but he’s too tired. 

Jensen’s foot bumps against his under the table, and for a moment neither of them speak. Their breathing falls in sync. 

— 

At seventeen weeks Jared has a very obvious belly, the babies riding high, making his balance uncertain. It gets more attention than some of trans girls do. In the meal line Jared gets a wolf whistle and Billy looks ready go cheerfully kill someone. 

“Cut it the fuck out,” Jared says tiredly. God, he hates this shithole where everyone thinks with his dick. 

When Jared leaves his table, he makes his way to where the whistler is sitting with his group, talking and laughing. One of them sees Jared, nudges his bench mate, and then they’re all watching Jared.

“Hey, it’s —”

Jared plants his hands on the table, gets in the guy’s face. “I’m only gonna say this once, so listen up you lowlife punk,” Jared says softly through a smile. “I’m in a really fucking poor mood right now, and I wouldn’t have to risk my trial to get rid of you. I so much as see you again, you’re greenlit.”

The table is dead quiet when Jared leaves, followed by Saint and Billy. 

— 

“You gonna be home in time to come to a game?”

Cal sounds cautiously hopeful, and it makes a heavy ache spread in Jared’s chest, gripping his throat. 

“Yeah, I’m not sure, buddy. But probably not.” There’s no way to make that sound any nicer. 

“Oh. Okay. It’s actually kind of boring, anyway.”

“No it’s not,” Jared counters. “If I could I’d be at every single one. I told your dad someone better be filming, so I’m going to—”

“Jared!” Cal wails, indignant. 

They end the phone call with Cal laughing, and Jared has to take a moment after he hangs up just to breathe and not cry, or punch a hole in the fucking wall. 

— 

Officer Trotter is two steps behind, and that alone should have kept Jared on the alert. But he doesn’t notice when her footsteps slow and stop, not before he sees the two guys in prison clothes coming down the hall towards him.

Jared spins, moving to get Trotter in his line of sight, sees both the men break into a run. It’s less than a second, and Jared dodges around Trotter, gets her between himself and his attackers. It buys him another second. Jared uses it to rip Trotter’s flashlight off her belt. 

_One of the first things Mark taught Jared about hand-to-hand was how brief it all was. Eight moves or less._

Trotter’s frozen, blocking the right, and Jared goes for the guy coming in on his left, using the flashlight like a truncheon, slamming one end into the hollow of the guy's throat. 

_The second thing Mark taught Jared was how fucking stupid it is to wear your hair long enough for anyone to get a grip on. With his face pressed against the map, eyes watering with the pain in his scalp, Mark’s grip on Jared’s hair controlling his whole body, it was a good point. It left Jared’s scalp sore for a week, but he didn’t cut his hair._

The second attacker grabs Jared’s hair, tied back with an elastic band, just fucking asking for it, and Jared’s face is heading towards the wall. He gets a forearm up, twists, slamming into the wall. The shock jolts through his whole body. 

_The third thing Mark taught Jared was how to take a hit. Arguably the hardest part of learning to fight. The first time Jared pulled off his shirt in front of Jensen, hissing at the pull off deep bruises, Jensen had stopped, stared. Shoulder to hip, Jared’s skin was mottled purple and blue._

_“Motherfucker,” Jensen said._

_Mark didn’t let up, and Jensen never commented again, but when he was inside Jared, rocking against him slow and deep, his fingers stroked over the tender places, gentle._

Jared moves into the grip the fucker has on his hair, shoulder in the guy’s sternum. He gets a grip on his body with one hand, and with the other brings the flashlight down on the guy’s kidney. Two vicious blows and the grip on Jared’s hair loosens. Jared doesn’t let up, and the third blow gets a scream through clenched teeth. That’s a few years of pissing blood.

Jared knocks the guy away, follows him back, slamming the heel of his hand up into the guy’s nose. He feels the bones giving way. 

Trotter’s standing against the wall, hand on her radio. Guy number one is clutching his throat, red in the face. He’s making sharp lurching movements, and Jared’s adrenaline-soaked system wants to step over and smash his face to a bloody soup with the flashlight. 

But the fourth thing Mark taught Jared about fighting was to finish, and then get the fuck out. 

“Thanks for the loan,” Jared says, breath coming hard and fast. He drops the flashlight as he passes Trotter and she flinches back. Fucking cunt. 

— 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Billy yelps when he sees Jared. 

Jared coming down off his high, feeling the ache in his shoulder, the sting in his scalp. There might be a little blood. He tastes warm metal and there’s a tender, oozing bite on the inside of his cheek. 

“Move, I’m going to puke,” Jared says, pushing past Billy to get to the toilet in their cell. The vomit is streaked with red. 

Saint’s there when Jared flushes and turns. 

“Trotter,” Jared says, and both men understand. “The guys weren’t from this floor. Orange suits.”

“Motherfucker,” Saints says. 

Jared probes at the cut in his cheek with his tongue. “Find out who and why, then let me talk to Jensen.”

“Trotter?”

“No.” Jared doesn’t want that kind of shit stirred up. There are other ways to get payback that don’t cause a prison lock down. 

— 

The pain starts an hour after lockup. 

Additional pain. Jared’s already sore from his meeting with the wall, from sudden, intense exertion he hasn’t been staying in shape for.

But this pain is different, still familiar. His lower back aches, sharp, sudden cramps wrap around his belly. It wakes him from a restless doze, and Jared rolls over slowly, hunching over to sit on the edge of his bunk. 

He waits, and after five minutes of slow breathing and no pain, thinks it must have been a fluke. 

Then it comes again, harder. 

“Fuck,” Jared groans, and immediately Billy’s moving, shuffling upright in the dark.

“You okay?”

“Don’t know,” Jared breathes. 

“What kind of don’t know we talking?”

— 

It’s labor. Or false labor. It fucking hurts like the real thing, but he’s seventeen weeks and the babies, two of them, are way too tiny to make it. 

Jared’s hunched over his belly, trying not freak out, make it worse, and Billy starts up a racket to get the unit officer’s attention. 

He doesn’t care. No one fucking cares. 

“We got a pregnant guy in here, man. He needs to be taken to a hospital.”

“Doc’s not in right now, he’s gonna have to wait.”

“Fuck you! He’s in pain.”

Jared grimaces, as much from the noise as the pain. He’s feeling nauseated again, pushes himself to standing, has to lean against the wall for a moment to stay upright. 

“You better shut the fuck up, Martin, unless you want . . .”

Jared leans over the toilet and vomits what feels like his whole intestinal tract, and the conversation fades away into a buzz. 

— 

Jared isn’t sure how much time passes. Billy’s pacing and swearing, hissing and muttering, then rising into a shout, answered from some of the other cells in the block, yelling for him to “shut the fuck up”. 

The rattle and thud of an approaching hack finally shuts Billy up. 

“You, move,” the CO snaps. 

Jared raises his head, squinting as he watches Billy move away and a youngish guy in hoodie over a set of scrubs steps past him into the cell. 

“You’ve been having pains?”

“No fucking kidding,” Jared says. Gasps. 

“Okay, uh, let me see . . .”

Jared watches the guy pull on latex gloves, fumbling. 

“You even a fucking doctor?”

The guy looks at Jared. “Physician’s assistant.”

Jared chokes out a laugh. “Oh, god. Get me to a fucking hospital, you— ” a stab of pain lances through Jared’s body and he breaks off in a sharp grunt. 

“How many weeks are you?”

“Seventeen,” Billy butts in. “He’s got two of ‘em in there. It’s way to early, he needs to get to hospital.”

“Hey, I told you to shut your mouth,” the CO snaps.

Sick to his stomach, system rolling on waves of pain, Jared stares at the scrub-wearing nobody, the cocksucker in uniform, and his fear-stalked mind turned histrionic: _I’m going to crush you all. I’m going to destroy you._ Jared isn't sure if he’s ever hated anyone more than he dose at that moment. 

“You know, false labor pains are called Braxton Hicks and they feel—” 

Jared tries to stand, maybe to strangle the pretentious little fuck, or go puke some more — really, he feels himself moving before he knows why, and pain rips through him, like it really will separate body parts. A chill pours down over Jared’s skin, starting at his head, sends his ears ringing into silence. 

It all fades out.

 

— 

Jared wakes up with the voices just seconds ago, ringing in short breaks through fog. There was an ambulance, questions, an EMT chewing cinnamon gum. 

Jared breathes in deep, air rattling in his throat. His eyes feel sticky and sore. 

“Hey.”

Jared rolls his head towards the voice, not aware enough to wonder why it’s there at all. Jensen smiles at him, an odd jerky, movement. He’s learning forward in his chair, one arm extended . . . and then Jared feels the fingers on his wrist. 

“Hey,” he rasps, a dry whisper. 

Jensen’s smile half melts, his eyebrows furrow. He’s upset, but trying not to look it. Jared wonders, and his hands move toward his stomach. One gets pulled up short with a metallic rattle, but the other slides up the hard curve of his pregnant belly. 

Still pregnant. 

Blearily, he scans the room. Hospital. Real, not prison. 

“We all okay?” Jared asks. 

Jensen’s lips part, a sharp breath out, in. “Yeah. All okay.” His fingers slide down to Jared’s cuffed hand, he leans up, moving in for a kiss, and Jared turns his head away. 

“Christ, gimme a drink first.”

Jensen’s laugh is sharp, startled. Relieved.

When the nurse checks on Jared ten minutes later she makes a fake coughing noise and loudly explains to exactly no one who’s listening, visiting hours are over.


	21. Prompt - Jared/Jensen + Sensual massage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite what the prompt said, this turned into shmoop and pregnant sex with a side of exhibitionism. Win some, lose some.

Baby shopping is like camping. No matter how much stuff you load up with, you always, always forget something. It’s round three. Jared is done this time, because if he sees one more list of “must haves for baby”, he is going to fucking punch something. 

“No one needs this much stuff,” Jared says aloud, and one of the sales girls straightening a shelf of fuzzy blue garments looks up with an inquiring expression. 

Jared dumps the pile of organic cotton baby bibs on his way out. He will just make sure the baby pukes on someone other than him. Right now he has an appointment to keep with a few pints of Ample Hills ice cream. 

It’s September, but summer’s hanging on, hot, dry days and slow-cooling nights. On the terrace of Jensen’s penthouse there’s a nice breeze that Jared takes advantage of, sprawled out on one of the loungers, watching mindless youtube videos and digging into Salted Crack Caramel. He’s never tried crack, but it can’t be more addicting than this stuff.

Jensen finds him there.

“This is what you do all day?” 

“I’ve been out all day, foraging for our child.”

“In the great wilds of New York?” Jensen’s smirks, reaches for what is Jared’s third pint of ice cream. “What is this?”

Jared knocks his hand away. “Get your own.”

Jensen swings a leg over to straddle the end of Jared’s lounge chair, the fabric of his pants pulling tight over his crotch, the shape of a semi erection pressing against his left thigh. Jared watches with hooded eyes. Jensen’s dick has always been a focal point for Jared, and lately it’s taken up fully half of his brain function. To Jared, they’re having a phenomenal amount of sex, but Jensen’s always ready for more. Jared thinks he greatly underestimated how much Jensen was fucking other people, before. 

Jared presses bare toes against Jensen’s knee, working up the inside of his thigh. “Have a good day at work?” 

“Fine day.” Jensen catches Jared’s ankle in a tight grip, pushing his leg up, knee bent. “Tell me what you got for the kid.” Jensen thumbs press into the arch of Jared’s foot.

“His crib’s done, so I picked that up.” Some people buy from Ikea, some people had their child’s bed custom built. Jared didn't have to guess which one Jensen would be. “Bought a bunch of those little suit things, because everyone says you need a million . . . god, that feels good.”

Jensen grins, pulls Jared’s other leg down, starts on that foot. “You sound like I’m fucking you.” 

Jared groans, presses his free foot against the growing bulge in Jensen’s pants, gets a hissed curse in response. Jensen grips Jared’s legs behind the knees, drags him down the lounge chair so Jared’s legs are around Jensen’s hips, his ass between Jensen’s spread thighs. 

“Over already?”

“Just starting.” 

Jared’s lying flat, knees bent, not a position he spends much time in these days, and not a comfortable one. When he feels Jensen working on his pant buttons, Jared reaches down and grabs Jensen’s arm to hauls himself upright. 

They come face to face, Jared gripping Jensen’s shirt, Jensen catching Jared around the shoulders to hold him steady. Jensen’s eyes are clear, pale green in the last of the sunlight, long rays slanting across the rooftop as the sun sets into a bank of clouds. “Hey,” he says, softly, like they’ve been apart for days, weeks, not just a few hours. 

Jared leans into a kiss, smiles against Jensen’s mouth, makes a happy noise when Jensen bites down on his lower lip. Jensen’s trying to move him and Jared rocks to one side, then the other, getting his knees under him, still holding the kiss. He has his forearms on Jensen’s shoulders, can feel the movement of Jensen’s hands translate to the flex of muscles and tendons.

Jensen turns away, breaking the kiss. He’s trying to get Jared pants off again, and Jared pushes up, leans forward, the roundness of his stomach pressed against Jensen’s chest as Jensen pulls his jeans down over his hips. 

The cool breeze, sharper with how high they are, reminds Jared he’s getting stripped out in the open, plenty of windows to be watched from. Jared shivers, rests his head against Jensen’s, stubble catching and dragging, contrast to the softness of Jensen’s short hair. It smells a little like city air, but underneath is Jensen’s shampoo, a scent Jared has only one association for. 

The baby gives a solid kick, and Jensen must feel it because he laughs. “Think he wants us to stop?” even as his fingers slide into the cleft of Jared’s ass.

Jared’s fully hard now, the head of his cock sticky wet against the underside of his belly. He wants to press flat against Jensen, grind up on that nice expensive shirt, soak it with his spunk.

Jensen’s finger is rubbing over Jared’s hole with a pressure that’s making Jared twitch and shiver. As much as he wants to feel Jensen’s bare skin, he doesn’t want to move to get at the buttons. Jensen’s free hand slides up his back, under his t-shirt, tracing the arch of his spine. The exploring touch is something Jared can enjoy for hours, Jensen’s fingers learning his body over and over.

“I want to fuck you,” Jensen says as his finger rubs over Jared’s asshole, and Jared nods. He’ll get on his hands and knees right here, with the sounds of city traffic and glow of lights, let Jensen fuck him as night falls and love every second of it.


	22. Prompt - Cal/Bodyguard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, yes, well. I did my best? (FYI, no underage sex is happening here.)
> 
> ALSO: MAJOR SPOILERS

Cal meets Karl at a Madison Square Gardan VIP event. 

“Ackles? McNulty family Ackles?” Karl’s a New York native, grew up in Queens, even though he lives in LA now.

Cal’s seventeen, he’s used the association by now. Knows how to use it to his advantage. Karl’s the lead guitarist of _Dreadnought_ , Cal’s current playlist on repeat. Crime and rock music go well together, an association that builds an image. Two years later, Cal still gets invites to private parties. When their album _Dear Insanity_ goes platinum, Cal’s in LA to give the band his drunken kudos. 

It’s a pretty good night—Cal drinks too much, watches a great performance, almost pukes on Mike Luce, and gets to second base with gorgeous girl in the bathroom before he's interrupted. The last part kind of sucks, but Cal’s not sure that he would have even been able to get it up with how much champagne is sloshing around in his veins. It might be he was saved the embarrassment.

“Fuckin’ cock blocker,” Cal mutters anyway, because this is something he doesn’t want Carey to make a habit of. 

“Just following orders,” Carey says. “I've watched her pushing Jet all night.”

Cal’s dads don’t care if he drinks or fucks around, but the one time Cal tried something harder than weed . . . yeah, he’s still trying to forget that night. 

“Get me pad thai,” Cal says and lays his head down on the cool leather backseat. 

“You sure? Lookin’ a little green, kid,” Heller says, and chuckles. 

“Shut up,” Cal says, and doesn’t think about puking, not at all. 

“Just don’t feed him shellfish,” Carey says. “That was fuckin’ disgusting.”

“Fuck you,” Cal mumbles against the car seat. Through half closed lids he sees Carey turn around, watching him. It makes Cal aware of himself, every inch he’s taking up, the way his clothes feel against his skin, the hair sticking to his sweaty neck, the ache where his belt buckle digs into his belly. Carey is kind of a problem for Cal, and Cal's not sure if he wants to ask Jensen for someone else to shadow him, or if he wants to get Carey’s mouth on his dick.

“Food. Now.” 

Back at the hotel, Cal gets his food. Carey’s on the couch drinking a beer, watching ESPN. He’s got his thighs thrown wide, and Cal’s having trouble not watching the bulge in his jeans. It’s four a.m., he’s still pretty drunk, and the semi he got sliding up against silky, tan skin never really went away. Cal drops quick glances over as he eats. 

Heller’s phone vibrates. He glances at the screen, stands. “Boss,” he says to Carey, and leaves the room. 

Carey watches him go, biting at his lip. When his teeth let go he rubs two fingers over the soft, glossy pink and Cal stops chewing, all his attention taken in. Carey looks over, catches Cal’s stare dead on. 

Cal blames the alcohol. Instead of brushing it off, he holds Carey’s gaze for a few beats and then slides it slow, down to Carey’s crotch. When Cal looks back up, Carey’s watching him, expressionless, but the bulge in his pants is getting really expressive. 

When Cal sobers up, he’s not sure what the fuck he was thinking. Not that anything happens. No fucking way. But if Cal had any say, it would have. What happens is Heller comes back in, Carey goes out on the balcony to smoke, and Cal showers away party stink. He leans against the tile wall, jerks off slow. The hotel bath gel smells like clean air, and Cal closes his eyes, thinks of how the tattoos on Carey’s upper arms move over muscle, how Carey’s narrow hips look in suit pants. 

Even though nothing happens, that’s when Cal decides it will, someday. Except, turns out it’s a crush of proximity. As soon as Carey’s not following Cal around, Cal forgets how much he wanted the guy’s mouth on his cock. 

Cal’s twenty-five. In three months, he’ll be graduating with an M.A. in criminology. Nothing’s the same as when he was eighteen. Not even Carey. Cal opens his front door, and there he is. The buzz cut he used to sport has grown out a few inches. There are new tattoos on forearms, the left sleeve complete. 

“Hey, kid.” Carey looks him up and down. “Cal,” he amends. 

They haven’t seen each other in three years. For a guy who used to stop Cal from face-planting in his own puke, keep him out of fights, roll his drunk ass into bed, the interaction feels silted.

But one thing hasn’t changed. Carey still works for Jensen. 

“If you’re here because my dad, I’m not interested.”

“I’m here for your dad,” Carey says, then grins, quick and crooked. There are new creases at the corners of his eyes. “But if it makes you feel better, I’ll be here ‘cause of you, too.”

Cal’s still blaming this on the alcohol, because he should know better now, in ways he never could have as a teenager. It’s a bad idea, maybe even worse now than six years ago. But Cal pulls the door wide enough to let Carey in. Offers him a beer. Makes small talk. Somehow, it turns into something else. Four beers gone, Cal rolls Carey to the livingroom floor, braced on his shoulders, feeling the definition of hard muscle between deltoid and pectoral. Carey’s hands are on Cal’s thighs, strong fingers exploring in the direction of his ass, the buttons on his pants. Cal looks down, into dark eyes familiar like reaching out for a good luck charm and knows he's fooling himself. 

_Fuck._

Carey reaches when Cal pushes up, rolls off, but his hands drop away as soon as he gets a look at Cal’s face. 

“Problem?”

“No problem. Just a stupid idea.”

Carey laughs without humor. “Never thought I’d see the day,” he says. 

Cal walks him out. 

“I’ve got no kids.” Carey says, abruptly. “Not that I know of.” A quick smile. “But I kinda know how it is, being around, watching them grow. Investing.”

The pause that follows is so long, Cal says, “Point?”

“Yeah." Carey looks at Cal, all humor gone from his face. "If it were anyone else? He’d kill them.”

“Yeah, see ya, Carey,” Cal says, and closes the front door.

The next time Cal sees Carey, he’s laid out on white satin. The embalmer did a good job; the damage three .45 slugs did is hardly noticeable. Cal doesn't cry. He hasn't been able to cry in a long time, but that hollow place in his chest wears deeper, lets the wind howl louder.


	23. Prompt - Jared/Jensen + wakeup call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place the day after the wedding.

Jensen’s wakes up to his dick being sucked. 

The bedroom is golden with afternoon sunlight, blurry to Jensen’s unfocused eyes. His head aches, his whole body is heavy, lethargic with sleep, but the hot, eager mouth is still there, a warm hand cupping his balls. Jensen blinks gritty eyelids, gets a look at the warm, hard body lying between his legs.

Jared pulls off Jensen’s dick with a loud, wet sound. “Morning,” he says. His voice is rough, his hair a mess, falling into those sleepy fox eyes, catching at the stubble on his jaw. His lips are chapped red. There are purple bruises ripening on his neck, the golden skin of his shoulder. He looks fucking glorious. 

Jared’s hand is on Jensen’s low belly, thumb hooked around the base of his dick; he holds it steady, eyes still on Jensen, brings his mouth down and starts working his tongue around the barbell knob on the underside of Jensen’s cock. _Motherfucker_ it’s good. 

Jensen drags one arm up, fumbling to get a grip on Jared’s hair and bring that soft, hot mouth where he wants it. Jared loves fucking around, playing till Jensen takes control, holds him down and pounds till he unloads. 

Jared licks down Jensen’s cock, hot and wet and nowhere near enough. He ignores the grip Jensen’s got on his hair, pulling against it as he starts mouthing at Jensen’s balls.

“Jared, fuck,” Jensen groans. His throat hurts. Last night was further than he’s let himself go in years. 

Jared makes a noise, an open-mouthed moan pressed into the crease of Jensen’s thigh. He pulls harder against the grip Jensen’s got on his hair. Jensen’s watching the movement, breathing harder now. The gleam of the ring on his finger catches him; out of place, there to stay. That’s Jensen’s fucking husband with his head between Jensen’s legs, chasing cock like it’s the only thing he needs.

Jensen throws a leg up, pressing his heel into the groove of Jared’s spine, right above his tight little ass. He gives Jared’s hair a serious pull, hauling his head up. Jared’s mouth is open and wet, eyes tearing up with the sting. Jensen gets a hand around his own cock, slides the head over Jared’s slick bottom lip. 

“Like this.”

Jared’s breath is burning hot on Jensen. His fingers dig into the muscle of Jensen’s thighs. He opens his mouth, takes Jensen in.

One in the eyes of God and the Devil, the law and all of fucking humankind.


	24. Prompt - private plane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CONTAINS HUGE MASSIVE SPOILERS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt ended up in several very different stories, so I'm posting them each as their own. Here's # 1
> 
> (Also, hiiiiiii, it's good to be back.)

Three months after Mad Mike is found floating in the Atlantic with a hole in his head, Jason gets his personal shot at Ackles. He has to share it with local boys and the fucking port authority, but when it’s all said and done, Ackles is going into federal custody.

Jason’s boss has tried this a time or ten before, getting access to Ackle’s private jet. Back then, Mad Mike was the real target, and anything less was settling. Half the time the block came from somewhere higher up: warrant denied, orders to stand down. But there were a few times a dozen cops, warrant in hand, would be left waiting for Ackles jet to land, and thirty minutes later get a phone call telling them he’d landed at an alternate airport. 

Not today. Jason can see the Bombardier Global, camouflaged silver against a gray sky, coming in for landing. 

The passenger manifest is Ackles, his husband and kid, four of Ackles’ men. Cargo is about ten million in gold bullion. 

A federal agent missing, presumed dead; Mad Mike in the ground, and two more members of the McNulty family disappeared, and after months of investigation they still didn’t have a single fucking thing that will stick. So they let Ackles leave the country. And while Jensen Ackles spent a week doing fuck knows what in Switzerland, Jason’s team put together a welcome home party. 

“One for the books, huh?’ says the uniform next to Jason. She’s chewing gum, watching the jet taxi in. “What are the odds this is what trips him up.”

Jason doesn’t any anything, but he wants to tell her to shut the fuck up. He’s not superstitious, but why fucking risk it? 

Then the jet is there, and there’s no time to think. Cops are swarming the tarmac, a voice blares over a bullhorn, “This is Special Agent Martinez! Shut off the engines!” 

Jason is standing ten yards from the stairs when the cabin door opens. There are federal agents behind him with rifles aimed, but Jason still feel his adrenaline spike. The first person to step out is Jensen fucking Ackles. 

Three different cops scream for hands where they can see them. Ackles smiles, half raises his hands, palms out, as he walks down the stairs. Two of his men, Wilson Dekker and one Jason doesn’t know, are behind him.

Jason has seen more picture of Jensen Ackles than he has of his own girlfriend, but he’s only been face-to-face a few times. Ackles looks too relaxed for man who landed a jet full of illegal gold in the middle of a federal bust. He’s wearing mirrored sunglasses, and when he turns his head, Jason catches his own tiny reflection. 

“Didn’t expect to see you here, Agent,” Ackles says to Martinez. “That knee doing okay?”

“Search warrant,” Martinez says. He approaches the stairs, hold the warrant out to Ackles. “Let’s get everyone off that plane.”

When Martinez steps on board, Jason is right behind him, gun ready, trailing federal agents and port authority officers. 

Ackles’ husband, Jared, is standing in the main cabin holding a bag. Beside him a bruiser Jason recognizes as Mark is holding a baby against his shoulder. The agents behind Jason are on them in a second and Jason, already moving further into the plane, hears Jared say, “Hey, it’s fucking diapers.”

“Clear,” Jason yells, once he’s checked the stateroom and bath. He holsters his gun and walks back to the main cabin. The crew is being escorted off board. Martinez looks at Jason. 

“Okay, take this place apart.”

An hour into their search and Jason’s stomach is sinking, a bitter taste in the back of his throat. He knows Martinez will keep this plane parked on the tarmac for a week if he has to, but it wont do any fucking good. There’s no gold. No drugs, no cash, no dead bodies, not a fucking thing but the leftovers of a few million dollars blown on week of play. The best Jason’s people have is half a dozen guns. One, Jason took off the floor beside the bed; Jason and another agent stripped the mattress, opened it up with box cutters. The bathroom is pristine except for two half full glasses of wine, one with a drowned cigarette. Jason leaves it strewn with towels, shampoo, bottles of lube, the pills dumped from a bottle of ibuprofen. 

Agent Reider is standing in front of the baggage bay. It’s chaos, every single piece of luggage taken down to individual pieces, then torn apart to search the lining. 

“Nothing?”

“Not a goddamn fucking thing,” Jason says. They blew it. They fucking blew it. 

“Fuck!” Jason slams his fist against the wall.

“Martinez wants to see us up front,” Reider says. 

Jason heads up toward the galley, following Reider. The entertainment center is in pieces, the leather couch and flight seats completely fucking ruined. Light fixtures have been pried out of the walls. Every inch of the sleek, beautiful place has been trashed, but even that doesn’t give Jason satisfaction. 

Martinez is leaning on the galley’s marble counter, phone to his ear, mid conversation. 

“Not yet. If . . . Christ’s sake, Jean, you know that’s not true. This is Ackles we’re talking about.”

Martinez shifts his weight and Jason notices he’s favoring his knee. 

“I will have you called the second I know. The very second.” Martinez ends the call. For a long moment he doesn’t move. 

“Get the dogs in here.” 

Jason knows his boss has given up any hope of finding gold and is now just hoping to salvage the situation. 

Behind Martinez’s back one of the uniformed cops is holding a bottle of champagne. As Jason’s boss leaves the cop turns the bottle label toward Jason. “This is like two thousand dollars a bottle.”

Jason doesn’t like champagne. He sure as fuck can’t tell the difference between good, bad, and insanely expensive. 

“You have your orders, officer. Search everything.” 

The cop grins, peels off the gold foil. 

Jason walks into the cockpit with a glass of foam and gold. He takes a sip, looks out over the wet tarmac, the huddled cars and uniforms. Jensen Ackles people have been separated into groups. Ackles is standing with his husband, his back to Jason’s view. He leans in, says something to Jared, then turns. Jason is a little surprised to see the bundled baby Ackles holds in one arm, pale green hood and blue blanket standing out against Ackles’ white and black clothing. 

Seeing him holding his child makes some people have what they call a revelation, that Jensen Ackles is just like anyone else; a father, a husband. But Jason knows, that’s so much bullshit. Looking at Ackles now, Jason sees exactly what he is. A monster holding his spawn. If Jason doesn’t take down Ackles, someday that kid is going to be just as bad as his dad. 

Jason waits till Jensen looks up, catches Jason framed in the windshield. Jason smiles, raises his glass. 

“You win this round, motherfucker.” 

It’s too far to really get Ackles' expression, and after a moment he looks away.

Jason take another drink, the champagne sparking on his tongue, velvet down his throat. 

“But there’s always next time.”


End file.
